The Path We Walk
by myselfonly
Summary: Second in the Shadow series, sequel to The Child and the Darkness. Legolas takes Gimli on a long promised hunt in Eryn Lasgalen, but their friendship and their will to survive is put to its greatest test deep in the wildest parts of the Greenwood. The Shadow is very, very angry. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**So it's here! The sequel, all (mostly) written and ready to start. This will be much longer than The Child and the Darkness and will be posting pretty regularly, although chapters will not generally be as long as this one! This picks up about a week or two after the end of Child, and I guess you don't really need to have read that but it will certainly make a lot more sense if you have. I won't ramble too much, but thanks as always to Lindir's Ghost who has kept me going, even when I was ready to just give up and vanish. **

**Usual disclaimers apply - none of this is mine. I really hope you enjoy.**

**MyselfOnly**

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Elves, I have decided, are too easily excited.

If they are not spending hours staring at the sky then they are crouched beside a stream, the same enthralled expression upon their faces as they watch nothing happen. They will play in the rain no matter their age, and they will race one another as though it is the only sensible way to get from one place to another. Each moment is a joy of its own, each occurrence a reason to sing, and right now it is tiresome.

I do not know where I am being led only that I was enjoying a perfectly deserved meal not ten minutes ago. Now I am being dragged down the heavily tree lined road that leads from the palace by an elf breathless with excitement.

"_Hortho_ Gimli! We will miss it!" Idhren urges. He is frustrated by my dragging heels, and I give in; it is the look in his eye and the tone in his voice that spur me. He is excited, yes, but his eyes are both thrilled and worried. Something happens, and I push the irritation aside to run along a road I have come to know well.

I am brought to the practise fields, another place I have come to know well. It is windy today, and the trees are loud with it but beneath the soughing branches there is another sound that alarms me: the sound of metal clashing against metal. Someone fights, and as we come from the trees I see there is an audience. A number of elven warriors stand curiously, leaning on hands braced upon bows and sitting in branches. I see the King stood with a group I know to be healers and a hawk faced elf with ice chip eyes, who is Thranduil's chief advisor: Lord Ionwë. They stand and watch two elves fighting, and one of them is Legolas.

The _laegrim_ prince is dressed all in his warrior's garb as I have seen so infrequently these weeks gone. His hair is tied back in his neat warrior braids, he is wearing boots again and I am unsure at first as to what is happening. He is not fighting in play, he is not holding back, and his eyes are feral and predatory as he and another elf I recognise as Orthorien circle one another. Legolas twirls his blades, and it looks like a casual gesture but I watch closely for any stiffness or signs that his hands are hurting him. If they ache it does not show in the graceful movements, and as golden and mahogany hair pennants in the wind they are wild things doing battle beneath a heavy sky.

I have seen Legolas and Aragorn spar with one another many times, and even I have practised with the elf. His advantage is in speed, and I have always known that he holds back when he spars with us. For physical strength he will never match us in the wielding of a sword or axe but he is stronger in sinew and leg – I have felt the crushing grip of his hands, seen how he can leap about the trees and change direction in a sprint like a bird turns on the wing. I see him fight now with his peers, and it is brutal: they do not spare any care for one another as they spar. They move with all the savage grace gifted upon their kind, twisting and dancing as their singing silver blades come close – so close – to causing very real damage.

Legolas kicks and strikes Orthorien to the chest, and elicits a winded grunt. Orthorien twists Legolas by the arm savagely, and has him almost to his knees before he melts from the hold and dances from reach. It is raw and savage, and they bend like the willow around each blow. They anticipate one another's movements like a bird in flight and blood is drawn once, twice… I cannot watch! They are to kill one another!

I look to the king and he watches his sole child and heir with cold, assessing eyes. It is not his son that he watches but one of his captains. If Legolas is to be considered fit for duty again he must pass this test before the eyes of his lord and his betters, and I hope for the lad, I truly do, but mostly I hope that he survives this fight in any condition to be pleased by his performance.

I watch again and push down a frantic urge to run out to the field to stop this nonsense. I try to see it as the warriors see it…they do not fear. I hear them murmur in appreciation of a move well made, I see Idhren turn to me and smile in approval as Orthorien pivots about a sweep of Legolas' blade and jabs an elbow hard between his shoulders but I can only grimace. The warriors have seen this display time beyond count and are not worried so I take a breath, and I look again.

Orthorien is more experienced, that I know. He is older than Legolas by a good deal but the prince has talent on his side. The older elf moves with practised ease: he has greater power but for Legolas it is instinct and nature. His knives are an extension of him, and he is the wind. It is not Legolas' parentage that makes him captain of the archers.

The fight continues for hours. The elves are comfortable and do not grow tired of the spectacle. A small contingent leaves for duty and is replaced by another freshly returned but the majority remain as they are, watching. I am a ball of nervous energy by the time the call finally comes to cease, and the two combatants fall still. Their only movement is the fall of their hair in the wind and the heaving of their shoulders as they regain their breath. They sheath their weapons and bow to one another, turn and bow to their king, and as the audience begins to filter away to other pursuits I rush over to where Legolas stands.

The king is there ahead of me and so I stand behind him, awkward and fidgeting. Legolas is out of breath but nowhere near as he should be for such a prolonged fight. He is dusty and bleeding, and I can see his hands at his sides flexing and clenching as he does so often now but he is afire with energy, his eyes wild and penetrating. Orthorien claps him on the back, and they grin and speak lowly to one another as Orthorien leaves the field and then it is just he, the king and his advisor, and one very out of place dwarf.

"_Herunya,_" Legolas bows as his father approaches.

"You are out of practise Legolas," Thranduil's advisor tells him, and there is disapproval in his tone. It is only that I am in the company of the king that I stay my tongue. Legolas inclines his head in acceptance; it is with a rueful half smile that he says:

"I feel it in every part of me Lord Ionwë, but it is good to feel my blood flowing again."

"How do your hands fare?" Thranduil asks. Legolas brings his hands before him, and bends and clenches his fists.

"They ache, _Aran nin. _They ache fiercely but they are much improved."

Thranduil assesses his prince, unconcerned as his own golden hair streams about him. There is silence and something is being considered, some decision being made that I am entirely left out of. The light is leaving and my eyes begin to strain, the clearing takes a more threatening feel as the sound of the wind in the trees turns angry and wild. It will storm tonight. The king and his advisor look to one another before Thranduil speaks again.

"Clean yourself up and come to my chambers Legolas, we will speak there. You too Master Gimli, I have something for you."

And he is gone. We are both dismissed with no further look or word, and the two elven lords are lost to the encroaching night. Legolas watches his father leave with a strange look upon his face before I am on him; all of the nerves of a mother hen flooding from me in anger. I strike him solidly in the arm and his attention is upon me with a betrayed wince, massaging where I have struck.

"Do not look so innocently!" I ignore the wide eyes. "Do you seek to send me to an early grave? What was this?" I gesture about the churned grass where he has spent most of the day trying to force my heart out through my chest.

"A short test," he dismisses, starting the walk back to his chambers to make himself presentable. I follow. "I am not to be considered fit until my king believes me capable; one of the disadvantages of my birth. I once twisted my knee clean from its moorings and had to spar a day and a night before my father allowed me back to my duties – I have received light treatment today."

I cannot share his light mood. He is filled with the fight and grinning like a fool, where I am still strung as tightly as a bow.

"Could you not have warned me?"

"I have sparred many times before," he looks at me as though I am slow. He is completely baffled by my mood. "I have not died."

"That was not sparring," I rumble through my beard. "I have seen sparring. I have _sparred_ many times myself. That was battle!"

He laughs. It is musical and light, and I repeat my words in my head to unravel what has sparked his mirth but I cannot for the life of me work it out. I am disarmed by his delight and feel the annoyance leave me like an exhale. Am I to be forever at the mercy of his laughter? I have never known a creature with a temper so vile yet who laughs so freely. If I am so exhausted by his changeable nature then it must truly be a hardship to be endured to be Legolas himself.

"Lord Ionwë," I comment as we walk against the wind. "He is bracing."

"Aye," Legolas muses flatly. "He does not spare his words, certainly. He believes that the _laegrim_ have no business bearing arms and disapproves of any part of me that is not Sindarin. He has little time for foolishness or weakness but he is a good commander past his unpleasantness. He and my father are very close – he once would read me tales, and taught me to ride my first horse."

I cannot imagine it. I have seen much of Lord Ionwë in my stay here: criticising his warriors' form or footwork or the condition of their weapons, and although he has always been quite certain to ignore me entirely the experience has always left me nervous, and anxious to do better.

I follow Legolas to his chambers where I take my usual seat at his fireside. He changes from his dusty warriors garb into apparel more fitting and squirms into a vest of silver and an almost colourless green. He washes quickly, and as his braids are un-picked his eyes are assessing.

"Are you not to make an effort for my king?" he asks critically. "I could maybe get them to fetch you a rake for your beard?"

"The volume of my beard is an honour to your king," I inform him, stroking it proudly. "Do you need some assistance weaving flowers into your hair or are you able?"

He turns away with a roll of his eyes. He mutters something, and I do not need to understand his words to know that I am being called an idiot.

He is quick – my feet are barely upon the rest and I have just become comfortable before he is dragging a comb half heartedly through wind tangled gold and leaving. He is anxious to hear what his father has decided. I am up and behind him, and he sets a merry pace through the palace until we reach Thranduil's chambers.

~{O}~

The receiving chambers of the king are as understated as the rest of the palace. The elves of Lasgalen do not prize ostentation: instead their decoration is organic and has moulded this mountain to resemble the outside forest as closely as possible. The craft and skill that has gone into these halls is something I appreciate very much, and as we enter the king's rooms my eyes are not for the wine on the table – although it piques my interest – nor the tapestries nor the books. I do not see the ornate swords or the beautifully detailed map of the land that takes up one entire wall. Thranduil's fireplace is a frozen waterfall that starts from the ceiling and flows to the floor. Fish leap and twist from the hearth, the firelight sets shadows dancing so that the water looks as though it rills and flows freely with all of the joy of the river. It is an astonishing piece and I am envious, running my fingers across the stone as though expecting my hand to return wet.

Thranduil is relaxed tonight; he has changed from his more formal robes into soft fabric of light green, and he and his son look much alike right now. Legolas stands before his father and is all a-fidget.

"Be still, Legolas!" Thranduil chides softly. "You are twitchy as a leaf, you are not being reprimanded."

Thranduil turns his attention to me and the elf takes his cue to make himself at ease. He is to the balcony, watching the stars in little time. Then he is to the map. Then he is to the books. He picks things up and puts them down again, and I stop watching him as he is making me nervous.

"Master Gimli," Thranduil greets me. He is not warm to me but he is never unkind. I know that a child of Mahal is not the friend he would ever have chosen for his son but I believe I have proven myself to him; he is respectful at least, which is more than I could ever have expected. My father led me to believe that Thranduil was without any breath of kindness or mercy but I have found him stern and strict, aye, but no less than expected of a king who has fought a great darkness for such long years. I bow to him, it is no less than he deserves. He nods and picks up a letter from a great pile.

"These came from Lothlorien today," he indicates the missives. He is speaking more to Legolas but I am not excluded. "They are from the Silvan elves there, petitioning me for shelter in the years to come. They wish to start a colony here when the Sindar and Noldor sail."

"The fading of the elves will be much drawn out if the Silvan folk have a thing to do with it," Legolas comments wryly, scanning through one or two of the letters and then brushing his fingers across the solid oak of the desk. "Will you grant them quarter in Greenwood?"

"They are kin, in their way," the king confirms. "But this has also come."

He hands me a single scroll; it is light – a short letter – and written on paper finer than any I have seen before. A ribbon of palest yellow is wrapped about it. I know in an instant who it is from, and my heart is gripped so that I can barely breathe; my lady! It is from her!

"You are honoured beyond measure," King Thranduil tells me, his eyes assessing and mildly curious. "You are _elvellon_ indeed to be receiving letters from the Lady of the Golden Wood."

"I thank you," I stammer out, but have no further words. This is a treasure indeed! I put the letter away; I will read it later when I can give the words of the lady all of the attention they deserve. I can barely hold myself together for the urge to flee the room right now but I am no child, I am master of my heart. I remain still, and I conduct myself as Gloin would have me.

"Legolas," Thranduil turns his attention abruptly to his son. His voice is sudden, and the elf is staring at me so intently that his father's voice makes him start. "You are restless, and you are making me itch. When are you to leave?"

"Ada I – " the prince is taken aback. Thranduil waves one hand gracefully, giving the slightest shake of his head.

"These last weeks that you have been home have been a blessing, but I feel that you draw out your healing out of some sense of duty to me. Your whole life you have been scratching at the walls to return to duty within days of being allowed from the healers but you have never been out of the Greenwood for any time before that… _Noldor_ persuaded you to walk to Mordor. Although I am pleased indeed that you have allowed yourself time to heal for once, I do not wish you to have any doubt in your heart about leaving Lasgalen."

He pauses and for a moment I see a hint of pain about him, as though he is at odds with his words. The king glances to the map upon his wall as though he reminds himself what he stays for, what he is about, and then his eyes are upon his son again. When he speaks again his voice is softer; he is a father now and not a king.

"I realise I cannot keep you here any longer Legolas. Your duties as captain and prince are not as they were, and so I release you from them; I will not greet my wife again without letting her son live a few years upon Arda as we intended you to from the start. You are too much of the _laegrim_ to keep trapped here with me; we will have all of our days in Eldamar together."

I feel as though I intrude now. The mood of the room has changed; Legolas and his father share a gaze that holds a weight that I can feel from where I stand. The Eldar lavish their children with affection – when you are a parent for millennia the love only grows with time – and there are countless centuries there, of a father and son who have carried their people through the darkest of times. They have survived their own personal losses, they have fought and railed against one another and are still here now at the twilight of their days on these shores. Thranduil reaches out to his son and rests his hand at the back of his neck, forehead resting against forehead. Firelight glinting against gold. If I could vanish into the wall right now I would.

"Ada," I hear Legolas murmur. "I will not wander forever."

"Visit. Do not become lost to the Greenwood," the king urges, and then thinks. "But perhaps take a better known pass?"

Legolas huffs a laugh, and they separate.

"Wait a week or two before you go, Legolas," Thranduil tells him. The tone of his voice is that of a king again. "Ionwë is correct; you are much out of practise. You fought well today but you are not up to your standard – nothing a few days on the fields will not improve. And Legolas?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"It is good to see you well again. You should heed the dwarf more often; he does not seem as inclined to fall into trouble as you are. I would ask that you leave us now, I wish to speak to Master Gimli alone."

Legolas complies but not without shooting me a suspicious glance. The one I return is perhaps a little concerned for my own welfare. He grips my shoulder as he passes as though I require the strength of it, but the coward leaves me alone here in the room with the Woodland King regardless. If Thranduil knows my discomfort he does nothing to quell or acknowledge it, and the silence is perhaps the most awkward that I have ever experienced. It stretches for an eternity and he stands, his eyes upon the map of his realm with an expression that I recognise – I have seen it many times upon a face much similar – but I still do not know what that expression means. It is like a wall of iron.

I consider clearing my throat in case he has forgotten that I am there but then he speaks.

"I will give you honesty, Master Gimli, for I feel that you have earned that much," he says, his voice very different to the one he uses with Legolas. He is stern. "I have never quite fathomed the reason nor the purpose of dwarfs, nor met a single one that I did not find disagreeable."

I snort a laugh, too sudden to choke down. Thranduil shoots me an ice chip look that even a year ago would have me cowed into insensibility but I am much practised now. I raise one hand to placate him. "Apologies my lord, I do not laugh at you. I did not think elves could speak so directly, and in thanks I will grant you the same: my people have little love for you in return, it is true. Even so I find myself friends with your son… although I am still unsure as to why."

Thranduil watches me closely for a while longer. His face is unreadable; he is both noble and fair as only the great elven lords can be and the weight of the years in his eyes makes the air in the room thick and electric, but he quirks his lip briefly in the most passing of smiles. He is amused. I am oddly relieved.

He leads me to some chairs and a table with a fine decanter of Dorwinion set aside. I am poured a glass, and I sit as he sits; I am being taken into his confidence and it seems I am to be doubly honoured today.

"I have been told tales of you, Master Gimli," he speaks, sipping briefly at the wine before setting it aside. "You are very brave and very loyal. That is rare in any creature no matter their birth. I had my doubts about young King Elessar when first I met him – a truly obnoxious child he was – but I have been proven wrong in him, and I hope to be proven wrong in you."

"My actions are not undertaken to prove a thing," I tell him. "I do not think on what I do in terms of who might approve or not."

"That is untrue," he disagrees, and although I feel a flare of anger at it I wait. He is not finished. "The true measure of a person is the mind they bear those around them, but you speak well. To do this without thinking on it shows strength of character; a weak man must plan his actions to seem strong."

It is not something I had ever thought on before. Elves spend far too much time in their own heads. He speaks again, and his eyes have strayed out to the forest beyond his balcony. He does not leave me feeling alone as Legolas does when his mind wanders; Thranduil is not Silvan and very much more _here_ than his son is, but I can tell that his mind is on the Greenleaf nevertheless.

"You must understand Master Gimli; though my son may seem old in your eyes his years are nothing against those that he will number. He is a great warrior and strong, but he is still young and I fear for him; his fëa is too untested to manage the grief he will feel when his mortal friends pass. Elven hearts run deep, and even Eldamar cannot completely heal one broken."

"He is too much in the stars," I speak slowly, forming my thoughts into words. "I would have him remember us; I would not have him watch our days for all of his."

"But what is done cannot be undone. His path and yours, and even the path of that Dúnadan were twined together from birth. Legolas does not trust easily, but trust you he does and he thinks well of you. Please Master Gimli, remember what he is; he is not a man, or a dwarf. He is a _laegrim_ child, and his heart is a fragile thing once bared."

~{O}~

I sit in my chambers and I know not how long I have sat here.

A fire warms the room, and it is finally comfortable now that I have managed to break one set of balcony doors free enough to shut. The elves may not feel the cold but I certainly do, and I do not intend to freeze all of the night because they leave doors open long enough for plants to grow them into place. The other door I cannot budge.

I sit with the lady Galadriel's letter barely held by the tips of my fingers, and I think. It is a short letter – I was not expecting one of any length – and she enquires after my health, she hopes that I am well received by her Silvan kin and wishes me well in my life. She is to sail one day soon, I knew that, but it is her parting words that haunt me. I feel dread in my gut and I cannot shift it. The shadows of the room dance and sway with the play of the fire, and I am chilled. I am so far within my own mind that a voice behind me has me ready to swing my axe in fright.

"Why sit you in the dark?" speaks the air, and I could throttle him.

"I do not recall letting you in my room," I snap, getting to my feet and putting away my letter. Legolas sees my mood, watches what I do and straight away knows what I am about.

"What says the lady?"

"Nothing for nosey elflings to know," I inform him quite certainly. His eyes narrow, whether from being called an elfling or from me shutting him out I do not know. "How are you here?" I ask. He points to the balcony window that I have not managed to shut and I lean over it, my stomach lurching in horror at the height he has climbed.

"I know that you understand the purpose of doors, Legolas, I have seen you use them."

"I knocked an age. I came to check that you had not died."

He has been knocking? I have not heard him. It is disconcerting that I have been distracted enough not to hear such a thing; Legolas is not shy when he is about getting in someplace.

"All of this dreadful singing must have drowned you out," I grumble. I return to my seat by the fire as Legolas turns his head toward the window. The sound of a thousand elvish voices raised in song weaves softly through the late spring night. It is like the lament I heard in Lorien, but this is not the shattering sound of elvish grief this is a greeting to the stars. It is soft, I can make out no words and it seems to come from the entire Greenwood itself, as much in the air as the wind in the branches and the rain upon leaves. They sit amongst the trees, they walk the paths, they lie in their _telain_ watching the skies and they sing, all of them. It is melancholy and joyous at once, it is beauty and grace in song. It is one of the most haunting things I have ever experienced, and I will recall the sound of it for all of my days to come.

"It has been going on for hours, do they never tire?"

"They are happy," he shrugs one shoulder, and I feel instantly terrible. These elves have not known the safety and protection of a Ring, they have fought and scraped and grieved these centuries through, and here I am complaining that they are happy to finally be free of it!

"They are going to sing themselves hoarse," I grumble instead, embarrassed.

"And you are going to roast yourself if you sit much longer by the fire." Legolas makes no issue of my rudeness. He is ever tolerant of me. "Come, Idhren wishes your company. I have told of the tales you spin, and the archers wish to hear one."

"Do you and your friends not wish to howl at the stars also?"

"We do not sing tonight," he dismisses, as though any fool understands why. He does not explain this so I do not ask, and he stands expectantly, waiting.

I have no desire to tell stories right now. I have no desire to sit with Legolas' friends and have them realise that their prince is mistaken in his belief that I tell tales well. I do not wish to make a fool of myself nor do I wish to do anything but sit on my own and think, but I take one look at my friend and I relent. He has a way about him that makes him difficult to refuse at times, and so I follow him.

We do not go to the main dining hall. I have noticed that Legolas prefers to eat his meals with his men in the kitchens. It is unbefitting a prince, but well befitting my friend. If he cannot eat outdoors then he will come here before he eats in lofty halls.

The kitchens are warm and welcoming, and much of noise and activity but the heart of it is where the rough wooden tables are laid out to one side. They are old and scored and worn by centuries of elven elbows and weapons thrown carelessly upon its surface. There are always weary warriors here freshly returned from patrol, or those about to set out filling their bellies before they leave. This is where they sit and talk when they are not leaping around in trees, and although it is deep within the mountain and without a hint of the sky, Legolas is not frantic here.

We join a table with three elves I know, and I feel happier that these are not new faces. Idhren is here, of course. He is one of Legolas' closest friends but there is also Almárean who is not ever far away from the russet haired Silvan, and an _elleth_ who is named Faelwen. She is dressed in the same warrior garb as all of the Lasgalen archers and her dark hair is bound neatly, she is very fair with sharp grey eyes and I am told that her skill with a bow is close to that of Legolas'. She is counted as his second. They greet us with smiles and welcome, and they have located a barrel of ale for me – Eru knows where from, the elves cannot stand it. A great tankard sits ready for me, and I feel my doubts slip away.

They are lively company but they are elves nonetheless. They occasionally slip into their own dialect and I know they do not even notice that they do it. They speak quickly in terms I must unravel and change their subject mid conversation. They refer to senses and feelings I do not posses but I hold my own, and after a tankard of the fine ale has gone down I am relaxed enough to tell them the tale they have been asking for. The room has emptied to the five of us and the fire is low, casting great dancing shadows so I tell them of the Howler in the Deep: a tale of a murdered spirit that collapses tunnels upon his killers in revenge, and can be heard wailing and howling in grief through the depths of all mines.

I know that the elves do not fear spirits as most sensible races do, and so I focus my tale on the closeness of rock and the fear of the dark places that I know strikes a particular chord for them. They are struck dumb throughout the tale, and when I am done they overwhelm me with praise: their eyes are haunted and alive with the thrill of a good, chilling tale. As I feel myself reddening beneath their admiration I catch the eye of Legolas. He gifts me with a small pleased smile; he is glad to see my alleged talent enjoyed by others and to see me enjoying the telling. He is a sneaky elf.

When I return to my room we have stayed up entirely too late, and I have sampled more of the ale than I probably should have. I lie awake despite the comfortable buzzing in my ears and the heaviness of my eyes, and slowly the knot in my stomach begins to grow again. It builds until my chest is full of ice and I cannot find rest tonight. Her words burn into my mind and I cannot wipe it clean. Her letter was not for me, I was never foolish enough to think so but as humbled as I am that she thinks well enough of me to task me with this, there is a small part deep within me that wishes she had not.

"_Look to the Greenleaf" _she has bid. _"Look to the Greenleaf and guard him well, Gimli elvellon. A great divide in the path approaches, and I fear that the wrong road be taken – do not let him become lost to us. Keep his ears ever open to the Song, and his eyes upon the stars and you will be guide to each other."_

TBC

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Hortho - hurry

**Reviews as always are very much welcome. Hope you enjoyed.**


	2. Chapter 2

For the next week I see little of my friend. He is upon the practise fields from dawn, and some nights he does not return at all. I know well the endurance of elves and so I let him be, instead I spend my time at the forges where the weapons masters have given me my own space.

I make them some tools; good dwarven hand axes, and I help with the design of a new set of rooms freshly carven into the mountains. I am welcomed here, and the masons and smiths are pleased to have me. Here are some good sensible elves, and when I am left to my own I find great comfort in the familiarity of a forge and hammer. I feel my muscles burn and flex in a way they have not whilst I have been indulged here, and so whilst Legolas regains what he has lost these last weeks of convalescence, I remind my own body what is expected of it.

On the sixth day I take a walk and find him quite by accident. He is in the stable yard grooming a huge, fine boned black mare with a look of peace upon him that speaks nothing of the weariness that even he must feel by now. There is a look of happiness about him that does my heart well.

"This is a fine animal," I tell him grudgingly. I have had to learn a thing or two about horses… I have not been able to avoid it. I run my hand across a coat of sable velvet appreciatively and she allows it with a deep grunt of satisfaction.

"Her great, many times great _daeradar_ was the first horse I was ever given," he tells me. He does not pause in what he does. He is enjoying this moment of peace. "Roch was a fine creature, and his progeny fill our stables even after so many lifetimes."

I am silent for a moment.

"Your first horse was called 'horse'?" I ask carefully.

"I was very young."

He finishes what he is about whilst I stand leaning against a paddock fence, looking out at the fields where fine, tall elvish horses graze serenely. My eyes squint in the low evening sun and there is a gentle breeze that brings to me the smells of hay and horse. It is a scent that has become familiar to me of recent times, and I find it strangely comforting. Legolas leads the mare away and returns after a time to join me. He smells of horse also, and of grass and of wood.

"You must be ready to lose your mind with boredom here Gimli," he speaks, elbows resting on sun warmed wood. "I am sorry you have had to stay for so long."

I respect him enough not to deny it instantly. It has been many weeks indeed and it has been a strange time for me, but he has needed this rest to recover himself and I have needed it too. My head no longer hurts, my skull is healed but still I find myself forgetful. I am not as I was.

"It is a strange place, your Greenwood, and entirely too full of elves," I tell him. "I will tell you truly though that I have been perplexed but never bored. It is not as I expected, and I have been treated with honour and given friendship but you are different here; I wonder if it is right that I pull you away. You are happier than I have seen you before my friend."

I look at him expectantly. I do not know what I will say if he agrees but I will leave without him if he wishes it; I am afraid that this is the path that he should not walk and I could not endure it if I am the one to lead him to it. I feel an odd pain in my chest when I think of it but I am selfish, I realise. He is so ready to leave when this is his home: he is tied to this forest and its people by his very heart, and I never before realised what it was to say '_laegrim'_. Now I know that it is more than a word.

"You do not pull me, Gimli. I go." He meets my gaze, and he understands what I do. I cannot hide a thing from the dratted elf. His eyes read me as though my thoughts are but words upon a page. "I go with joy my friend. Greenwood has been my heart for a very long time but I cannot remain here beneath these trees as I once did, and never will Greenwood be my home again, never before I sail. I have little time left but a long time to live: I would like other memories than the forest to watch in the stars one day, and I would have my greatest friend by my side… if you wish it."

He smiles, and it is sad but he means every word so I nod tersely. If I clear my throat it is not because emotion chokes me, not at all. He grips my shoulder and I shove at him gently.

"Someone must keep your attention in one place," I reply. "Besides, we will be a while in Greenwood yet. You have promised me a spider and I intend to hold you to your word. Have you thought much on when we are to leave?"

"_Ithil_ sits full in the sky not five days from now; I thought that an auspicious time for travel. The spiders will come out more readily as it wanes but I do not wish to be in the south when she is in full darkness, we have then two weeks to travel and hunt. Can you endure the wait?"

"I can endure it if this is long enough for you to be enough healed," I counter his fun with seriousness. He sighs greatly.

"All are a fuss about it! I am grown enough to manage my own healing. I accept that I am not yet up to myself but I will be: I am weeks out of my sick bed, and yet I am still watched as though I am built of glass! I know not why every person I know has suddenly become my _naneth_."

I am dumbfounded. This is the same elf that admitted just weeks ago his fear that he would never recover at all. This is the elf that we all feared would never hold a bow again, let alone shoot one. I recall the fear I have felt, the dread. I recall the nights I have sat awake with him to keep him from his melancholy, the hours I have argued and sparred with words to keep his mind occupied: hour after tiring hour. He is improved so that many would never tell the difference in him any longer but some do… I do. I see it, and suddenly his words anger me enough to reach and grab at his wrist. My hands are hard and tight with anger, and I pull his arm up before me, fingers wrapped about wrists delicate enough to snap like tinder. He hisses in pain and tries to pull away but cannot; I am stronger than him in this, and I pull his shirt sleeves back to show hands and forearms torn and traced with ugly scarring.

"_This_, elfling! This is why we worry! You were not the only one to fear that you might fade from this."

He pulls his hand away and steps back from me. His face burns in shame but his eyes are angry; I have hurt him, and not just in his flesh but I am angry too. Sometimes he shows the youth in his heart; he thinks little on how his injury has affected the rest of us. My anger is irrational: it outweighs his act of thoughtlessness and I feel shame that I have hurt him – that I have turned a pleasant afternoon into this but it is done now. It does not quell my anger, and now he is angered with me too.

"Go," I tell him, and I turn to leave. "Run about your trees until the moon is full and I will be ready, but think on your words Legolas. Think well, and we will have no more of it."

I walk and he does not speak nor stop me, and when I turn to see what he does he is gone.

~{O}~

The next week is an unhappy one. I resolve right away never to part on angry words with any person I have any care for but I still feel a flicker of irritation when I think on his words. To make light of our concern, to believe us worrying hens only after he has decided all will be well? It discards us and it is cruel. I know he does not mean it; Legolas is the most loyal creature I have ever known once his loyalty is earned. I know well enough that it was careless words spoken without thought but if he is to walk amongst mortals he must understand us better than this.

I know that our paths cross. Our rooms are close, and although I neither hear nor see him, I know he has been and gone just as I know the clouds pass by their shadows but he does not come to me. I do not know if this is because he is angry that I hurt him when he trusted me, or whether it is my anger that he avoids but I make arrangements for our travel nonetheless. I spend time at the forges, I spend time with the friends I have made here and I spend a short while in a vast library in which I get completely lost, and come out dusty and sneezing.

We are to ride south with Idhren and Almárean who will leave us once we finish our hunt to return with the horses, and so I am forced to pick a mount. I am surprised that the elves wish to ride at all; from what I have learned of them they prefer the tree tops to the saddle but I feel that this is a sociable event, and not some mission of any kind. I spend a long time selecting from a number of smaller beasts that I am presented with – all of which still seem as giants to me – and feel regret. I remember our travels upon Arod. I recall long days safe behind the elf who speaks with the beasts as though they are joined at the mind. Bouncing and jolting about as I do, alone on a horse of my own is not the same but there is no need now for us to share. It is nostalgia only that makes me think of this, and so I choose a small – and ultimately bad tempered – mare of deep red chestnut that makes her acquaintance by biting me. She and I will get along fine. She is named Naurwen and 'fire' is a good name for her indeed.

The night before we are to leave I barely sleep a wink. I lie in my bed, my pack ready for the dawn and my mind says: _'is this the wrong path? Do we leave to walk the wrong path?' _over and over. I cannot know! Our path cannot be chosen nor altered, how then am I to know when I lead us wrong? I do not think ill of the lady Galadriel, but right now it is the closest I have or ever will come to feeling ill used by her.

The full moon is low in the sky when I know I am not alone. I rise and walk to the open balcony where I know Legolas sits, perched like a bird upon the balcony wall and unwilling to enter my room this time. His pale glow is masked by a cloak of deep forest green, the hood pulled over him so that I cannot see his face but I know that he looks up to the stars. It is a clear night tonight, and my breath plumes in the chill air.

"I spoke unfairly," he tells me. His voice is low and unhappy; it has been a week but it is as though we spoke only hours ago to him. The days have blunted my emotion but it has done no such thing for him. "I am sorry Gimli."

"Did I hurt you?" I grunt, folding my arms about me. It is the chill, nothing more. He shakes his head and turns to me so that I can see the light of the moon full upon his face; there is the faintest play of a smile there. He raises his hands from the balcony to look at them critically, and now there is nothing but his balance keeping him from falling from the edge. I fight the urge to move forward to catch him. I have never seen him fall off a single thing but we are very high, and I feel a curl of fright nonetheless.

"They ache," he tells me. "They ache fiercely and I know not why. They should be healed now; weakened aye, and in need of practise to build back what I had but there is little stiffness any longer, and if I think hard on it I can bear my weapons almost as I did. So why do they ache still?"

I feel coldness but this time it is not his precarious seating, nor the chill of the night air. I remember then a flash from that day. She struck my hand – the Shadow struck me and it was as though my bones themselves were groaning with the protest of it. I recall the aching, deep pain again and I wonder if this is what he feels. It was no natural reaction to being struck but the furrows across my ribs – mere marks now – have not bothered me for a good while... but then I was not cut so deeply.

"What say the healers?"

"That the scars the darkness leaves upon us run deeper than flesh, and time alone cannot heal them. It seems I must endure, for now at least."

I am silent. I can read into his meaning; if he sails he will heal, but he will not sail. Not yet. Not for a while yet. "You should sleep," I tell him.

"As should you," he counters.

We stare at one another: the un-swaying stubbornness of an elf met with unyielding stone. He relents as he rarely does and looks away, he still feels guilty so the victory feels cheapened.

"Well then," I concede. "If neither of us plan on sleeping tonight then come down off that railing before you plummet to your death, and let us drink some wine together. Neither of us will do any good standing out here in the cold when there is a good fire inside."

The smile I am granted makes it worth giving in and he nods, and follows me inside.

TBC

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**Hi all and thanks for returning. Thought I'd do a bit more of a note this time since I ran off so quickly after the first chapter!**

**Some of you already know, but this story is already mostly written and therefore will not be abandoned. This also means that I have a lot of chapters ready to post, and subsequently updates will be every four or five days. I try to respond to all my reviewers but for those of you who post anonymously, thank you very much. I appreciate any review, even a short line just to say you're there and enjoying it (or not, but hopefully you are!)**

**Thanks again, and see you again soon. I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts.**

**MyselfOnly**


	3. Chapter 3

It is a small crowd that gathers to see us off this morning.

Thranduil stands with Ionwë to one side, and they are both stone faced and inscrutable as Legolas' – and indeed my own – friends bid us farewell. It is a sea of gimlet eyes and lissom figures, a rainbow of forest coloured hair and smiles. I am clapped about the shoulder almost into insensibility but they do not linger, the elves of Mirkwood do not draw out their goodbyes. I realise that these elves have said goodbye a great many times with the very real chance of it being final; none wish to dwell on that and so it is brief and joyous, and then it is over.

Legolas' great black mare stands ready with Naurwen. Her name also is Roch, I learn. It is a good name, Legolas says, and they have all been named thus. He is odd and I tell him so. They are joined by a fine boned bay and a cream coloured gelding with kind, gentle eyes. Idhren and Almárean are mounted already and I stand awkwardly by my own mount as Legolas approaches his father to say his farewells. He presses his fist to his heart and bows to his king, Thranduil takes him by the upper arms and speaks to him at great length but I do not hear what he says. If the look upon my companion's faces is anything to go by it is good that I do not. They seem embarrassed that they overhear, and find themselves adjusting packs and tightening straps that need not be adjusted nor tightened to keep their eyes away from the farewell.

When Legolas returns to us he is grim faced, and although I see him push his sadness at leaving his father far away when he sees us, it remains in his eyes.

We mount – the elves do not ride with saddle but I am grateful that they have found me one – and I take one last look behind me before we go. It is strange but I feel a thrill of regret to be leaving. I have been unexpectedly at peace here, despite the unpleasantness of much of it. I look upon the cool leaf dappled stone and hear the distant sound of weapons clashing from the practise yards. I know that deep within all is busy and orderly and full of elven laughter, and I realise I have come to know this place and its movement. It is good here, and I understand why Legolas has fought so hard for the people living within the mountains and outside in their _talan_ homes. I catch Thranduil's eye and something passes between us, a moment of understanding and I nod to him. It is more than a farewell or recognition, it is an agreement and he gives me a long, unblinking look before returning the nod with an oddly formal half bow.

Then, with sharp call from Legolas and a clatter of hooves we are gone, and the palace of King Thranduil is at my back.

~{O}~

We ride steadily south along the road all morning. At first we are quiet; Legolas is far away in his own thoughts and Idhren and Almárean ride ahead, heads close in low conversation. They are close, they two, although they are very different. Almárean is the elder by far and he is a serious and softly spoken Sindar whilst Idhren is amiable and talkative and regrettably Silvan, but they are like brothers. It can be easy to feel left out in their company.

I am happy at first to spend the morning getting used to riding a horse again; Naurwen is a spirited thing and dislikes being ridden by a dwarvish sack of oats after being ridden by elves her whole life, but I spend a while cursing at her and she bites my shoe, and after a while we come to an understanding to simply try and tolerate one another.

It is turning into a fine day, and the sky beyond the tree swaying green canopy is a pristine blue. It is warm and a breeze sets the leaves shivering in whispering susurration, we pass through dappled light and eventually Legolas is drawn from his reverie. He watches the birds as they dance and play across the road, singing: '_Joy! Follow: come and see!'_ and dart off into the trees again. He breathes deep the heavily scented air and I see his whole being relax. He is a golden rider upon a sable horse, a picture of opposites and when he turns back to check on me the pensive shadow in his eyes is replaced with the untamed light that I know far better.

In the afternoon the trees open out into a wide expanse of grass, and I see the sky open to me as far as I can see. There is a sharp, wild cry from my friend and the elves suddenly push their horses into an explosive gallop. I am helpless to stop it, Naurwen will not be left behind and so I am pulled along with them into a wild, headlong sprint.

At first it is all I can do to stop myself from falling off. The feeling of reckless, unbridled speed is not something I have experienced before but I quickly learn the rhythm of it, and how to bend low upon Naurwen's neck so that I do not unbalance her. My stout hearted little firebrand cannot match the other horses' reach but I cannot fault her for her speed – she is smaller but she is just as fast as they are. We gallop four abreast, side by side across the plain running for naught but the joy of it and I hear one of the elves cry loudly with exhilaration. I would do the same but I have not the breath for it.

My breath is whipped from me, the ground is a blur but I am flying! Truly flying! I feel the thundering in my chest that is my heart, I feel my blood rushing through me like fire and the beast below me is all power and spirit. We are wild things, unfettered and boundless beneath an endless blue sky and I wish I could fly like this forever but all too soon we slow and fall back into control, running our horses a while longer as the Greenwood rises upon us again, and we come to a stop. The horses are blowing but they wheel and dance, thrilled by their flight. The elves are feral eyed and grinning, and I realise I match their grins with one of my own. We say nothing on it – it is not something for words – but when we continue on our way I understand them a little better. I know now, even if I never experience it again, for a brief and shining moment what it is to be wild.

We travel a good distance through the day. We stop at a sparkling stream that rushes headlong toward the Anduin and let our horses drink as we ourselves stretch and rest. Almárean takes watch in the trees, and Idhren takes this opportunity to decide he is going to teach me how to shoot a bow. I get my beard tangled in the string and nearly shoot Legolas with a stray arrow, and I cannot do a thing for laughing so hard. Almárean abandons his watch to crouch in the lower reaches and peer down curiously at the three of us, all giddy as children with mirth, and I announce that archery is for elves and so should it remain. We set off again and Legolas begins to sing, and for once I do not complain about it.

When the sun begins to set we find ourselves upon a ridge, and settle a short distance into the trees where the setting sun glints like jewels through the leaves. It has been a wonderful day, and I make sure to tell Idhren that he is not to spoil it by letting Legolas cook then I take a short walk. I take myself out of the darkening forest to the grassed ridge and I look out at the world as it stretches below me. I can see Thranduil's mountain rising from the endless trees in the far distance and all the miles of forest between us are lit golden green by the setting sun. It is like a carpet of fire, the light like spilled gold and the air is sweet with the green scent of the wood. I take a deep breath, and Legolas comes and sprawls upon the ground beside me. I sit and we remain there in companionable silence, enjoying the sunset.

"I am becoming an elf," I sigh mournfully to him. "You have ruined me."

"You are too short to reach even the lowest branches of a tree," he disagrees. "And I have never managed to persuade you out of the pipe. Do not fret; the mountains will fall before the last drop of dwarf is wrung from you."

I chuff a small laugh and try not to notice how he rubs at his hands.

"What was in the letter the lady sent you?" he asks me, plainly and simply. I find myself unable to refuse such an honest question but I still do not understand my own feelings on it.

"A warning," I admit to him. "It was a warning of a choice to come that she has seen, though she has given little more than that: a branching of paths, or so she says."

Legolas is silent for a while as he thinks on this. The golden forest before us changes hue, the shadows shift, the display is constantly changing. The western sky is a riot of pinks and purples, the east is deepening navy.

"The lady Galadriel hears the Song and understands it," Legolas muses. "If she bids caution it is a fool that does not heed it."

"Caution is fine advice for anyone with any level of sense, mysterious warnings or no," I grumble, glad finally to be speaking of it. "I am unsuited to unravelling elvish mysteries, could she not have said 'do not do this thing' or 'go not here, there is danger'?"

"If it is a branching of paths then she will likely not see the outcome, and therefore not know the avoidance of it. She could hardly go without speaking of it though; she obviously thinks quite highly of you."

I finally look to him. I can see that the sun has made me a bristling mass of fire red beard but he is golden. His knees are brought up and his arms rest loosely about them, at ease.

"The warning was for you, Legolas, not for me."

If I see any reaction at all it is in the slightest narrowing of his eyes, but if I was hoping for any further discussion of it I am disappointed. He is thinking, and I see that this is another thing that I must wait patiently for his response on. We will speak again on it eventually but we are finished for now.

"Come," I say, getting to my feet. "I think we have been enough time now for Idhren and Almárean to have done all of the work, let us see what is for our supper."

He is to his feet in one fluid movement, and gives one last look at the glory of the fading sky before gripping my shoulder and following me toward the welcoming glow of firelight within the trees.

It is a pleasant evening spent eating slowly and talking quietly at ease around a merry campfire. There are the soft sounds of the horses nearby and the hushing breeze through leaves, and Legolas departs to take his watch this night.

Almárean asks me then of my home, and I tell him of deep halls that echo with the movement of the world and the rumbling songs of dwarves. I tell him of vast forges that burn with the endless fires of Arda's heart, of the beauty wrought by the hands of my people and spun from the raw materials of the world. I tell him of stout men and sturdy women, strong children all who smile and sing of the wonders they have seen in the darkness where none other can behold them. The two elves listen raptly, unable to comprehend beauty that was not brought to life by the hand of Yavanna but wanting so much to understand. They ask endless questions – they are like children – and Idhren is as breathless with the thrill of it as Almárean is quietly contemplative. I am happy to speak of my home, and am filled with a sudden yearning that I have not felt since the very quietest and darkest of times upon the quest. Here I am safe and amongst friends, and this is a happy yearning. I know I will see my home again.

I fall asleep to the sound of the low, musical voices of the two friends, and although I doze I note when their voices turn to more serious subjects. I cannot follow their swift speech but I have learned much of Sindarin, and even the dialect of the _laegrim, _and understand enough of their speech to know they speak of their prince. I do not catch it all, but they speak of his injury – not to his hands but deeper than that. It is the deep ache that he still feels that concerns them, and although he has learned to hide it, he fools them as much as he fools me. Something is not right with our friend.

~{O}~

The next day dawns with the promise of rain but the sky is merry; it is all about with scudding clouds and breaking sunlight that dances in mighty columns that twist and writhe upon the forest below us. I am back upon the ridge and stretch languorously as the last vestiges of sleep are swept quite thoroughly from me by a swift summer wind.

"Gimli you must see to your horse," Legolas calls out to me from just within the boundary of the trees. "She has bitten Idhren quite enough for the morning; she is yours to get bitten by."

"It is hardly my fault that she has never been taught manners!" I call back.

"Some are beyond teaching," he replies flatly and I know that it is not the horse to whom he refers. I wave him away with one hand, and somehow he takes that as invitation to approach.

"What see you out here in any case?" he queries in exasperation. "I was of the belief that you disliked looking at trees."

"It is not the trees that I look at, it is the whole. Is it not grand to you?"

It is not usual for me to speak so, and he quirks an eyebrow. "Perhaps those berries were not fit for eating last night."

I feint, a pretend at violence. He dances out of the way with a merry laugh and I cannot help but laugh myself at the sound of it. We are at ease and our guard is down. Neither of us are prepared.

The attack upon us is sudden; not even Legolas hears it coming and we are beset without warning by a swirling storm of black. I do not know the source of it at first; it is not until I am over the initial moments that I recognise the baying, wailing sound that is the furious cawing of crows. We are attacked, a flurry of oily black feathers and raking claws from out of the trees and from over the lip of the vast drop beneath us they come. I feel my skin scratched raw, and it is pure instinct that throws my hands up to protect my face and eyes, nevertheless my scalp is pecked at and my hair and beard pulled and tugged. Their wings beat at me and I am senseless with it. Sight and sound are blinded and muted to all but them and their unceasing mewling and braying. I seek to run, to flee from them. I feel panic that has no source and I cannot control it, I cannot escape this; they are relentless and furious and I seek my friend to see how he fares and – I will admit to it – to seek his aid but I have been turned around.

I step and I hear my name; a cry of terror that drops my gut into my boots but it is not a cry for my help, it is a cry for my welfare, and I know why in an instant. I have been turned, and my foot meets only air. I try to recover from it but the birds flap and claw and push at me, and I feel my balance tip. I am to fall from the ledge and I cannot stop myself.

There is a moment of realisation where I know I am to fall. My neck and spine freeze, the passage of time bends and warps, and I take my hands from my face as the fear for my eyes is overtaken by the fear for my life. I feel myself drop into the abyss and I am gone into the air, but as I claw and grasp for purchase a hand grabs onto me, and my fall is arrested. I drop and cease with a sudden lurch and there is a cry of great pain above me – it is Legolas. As I dangle in the air, feet and free hand scrabbling for hold he lies flat upon his stomach upon solid ground, and his hand grips me hard enough that I know I will bruise savagely. But I will bruise! I will be alive to know it!

There is a deafening of cawing; a hurricane of wings about us and the crows are gone as swiftly as they were there. I have no mind for them right now.

I hang; one gripped hand away from the end of my days, and my eyes meet the one who has caught me. Mine are wide with fright, I can barely breathe through it. My heart hammers in my chest hard enough to hurt and I gasp short, sharp breaths. I look up into Legolas' eyes and they are terrified as well but they are agonised. I cannot imagine what the sudden arrest of my fall felt like to such damaged hands and arms nor what it is taking for him to hold all of my weight like this. I have never known Legolas to show his pain so readily upon his face and he gasps as I do but he will not let go, his grip is like iron and he holds my life… but it is all he can do. He cannot pull me up.

There is an endless moment then when I realise how close I am to my end, how little there is between me and death, and there is not one single second of it where my eyes do not leave those of my friend.

'_Do not let me fall,' _mine beseech.

'_I will never let you fall,' _his promise back.

And then we are rescued, and I nearly weep with relief that we did not come alone. Almárean supports Legolas as Idhren pulls me up; it is jarring and hurried, and I fly through the air to lie flat upon my back on the grass and Ai! Never has the sky looked so glorious to me! I gasp and suck the air into lungs no longer constricted with fear but I shake; the fear is gone but I am filled with the horror of what I have just so narrowly avoided. I roll my head to one side and Legolas is there, sat upright like a puppet with strings cut cradling one hand close to his chest. His skin is grey with pain but his eyes are bright with horror, he reaches out to me and grips my wrist as though to reassure himself that I am here. I grip his back, I am most certainly here.

Almárean and Idhren are looking at us with surprise and fright; they do not understand what has just happened. When I have my breath back I will be quite sure to tell them, but not quite yet. I will feel the solid ground beneath me just a little while longer.

TBC

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**Usual message here folks - reviews are love. Its always very sad to know people are reading but don't have the time to give a bit of appreciation, or even say what you think isn't working. Thanks as always to those who always take that time; your continued support is a wonderful thing and I thank you.**

**Considering a double posting to celebrate the Jubilee long Bank Holiday (thanks Queen!) which would mean another chapter tomorrow night as well. I suppose that depends on you, the readers, letting me know that a) you're there and reading and b) enjoying it. It gets rather lonely otherwise!**

**Thanks, and see you all soon.**

**MyselfOnly**


	4. Chapter 4

The mood of our group as we prepare to leave our camp is in complete opposite to that in which we arrived. We are all four silent and stunned over what has happened. My hands have finally stopped their shaking and my heart beats its normal rhythm, but my stomach still churns. I have seen to Legolas' scratches and scrapes just as he has seen to mine and neither of us are truly hurt at all - they are shallow scrapes that barely bleed and will heal in little time - but his hand hurts him enough to fumble as he prepares Roch for the days travel. I shove him gently out of the way and he glares at me, but he allows me to do this for him. Idhren pulls him aside and binds the hand tightly; the support will help.

"Did you feel it?" Legolas asks lowly, watching the bindings wrap about his hand. I do not know what he speaks of but the other two nod.

"A darkness," Almárean speaks for my benefit. "The creatures were not acting alone."

I feel ill and there is a lurch of anger in me, quickly smothered. Have we not had enough of this now? But we are in Mirkwood, and things linger here. I finish with Roch and return to my own mount: I rest one hand upon Naurwen's warm flank and take comfort in her solid strength. Warm breath blows upon me as she turns her head to nuzzle my hair and I scrunch my face in readiness for a bite that does not come.

"They were driven to it?" I ask.

"Not even in Mirkwood will birds mob travellers as they did," Almárean confirms. "They were driving you, we saw it. They meant for you to fall."

I shudder. So nearly did they succeed!

"It is a mystery, certainly," I mutter. "But it is not one that I mean to ruin our journey. I still feel the empty air beneath my feet and the thought of what I have escaped will chill me for a while yet, but as ever my good friend Legolas was with me so I need not have feared. We are well and we must continue; clues to this mystery will not come to us standing here."

I look briefly to Legolas to ascertain how he is and he meets my gaze just as fleetingly; he shakes out his now bound hand and nods to me. He will be well.

He and Idhren spend the morning running through the tree tops, their mood lifted as they race one another. Their horses walk riderless alongside Almárean and I – they are quite used to the oddness of elves – and we hear the two laughing sometimes; perhaps on our left, perhaps on our right, sometimes far ahead. Almárean takes a deeply weary sigh and mutters: _'__Silvans'_ to himself much as I am sure I sound when I say: '_elves'_.

I am curious, and ask finally a question that I have been wondering on. I ask him how a Sindar and a Silvan so different have become such fast friends. He does not answer me for a while but I have become well used to this in elves and think little on it. Eventually he replies.

"You will note that Idhren and Legolas are close," he says. "They are in truth much similar in age, although Legolas is the younger. Their mothers were friends and so they played together as elflings; they would run the forest and were almost as wild animals. They were ever filthy things that fought and scratched if you tried to bathe them, I remember them well. I was of the prince's personal guard and so I came to know Idhren also. When Legolas started to learn the bow, Idhren followed him. When Legolas started to go on patrols with the warriors to learn hunting and tracking, Idhren followed. When Legolas joined the archers of Mirkwood on regular duties, Idhren followed but then Legolas became acknowledged as Thranduil's heir and Idhren was oft left behind."

It is the most I have heard Almárean say in one sitting but I do not interrupt. He is not done. I had not realised that this quiet, tall Sindar has been protecting Legolas his whole life – how his recent absence must have pained him! Almárean is remembering now and he has a look in his eye that all elves have from time to time; he is recalling the past and he is smiling.

"We spent a great many years together the three of us. First I was protector and then I was friend, but Legolas had many duties to attend to as he grew and took on more responsibility for his father. By then the darkness in the south was rising and Idhren and I became much used to being without him; I do not recall now how things were without Idhren by my side. He is a constant frustration but we have survived much together that we never thought to. Of course Legolas then decided to go off wandering about the lands, falling into battles that he had no business falling into so I was left to endure Idhren alone."

I assume by his slightly raised tone that the other two are nearby, and that this is for their benefit. There is a distant yell and Almárean smiles. His next words are for me, and they seem oddly regretful.

"Perhaps it would be easier if either they were less _laegrim _or I were more so, but it is how it is."

"So your friendship came about somewhat similarly to my own with that ridiculous prince of yours," I muse: "forced upon one another, and much by accident."

There is another, increasingly offended yell from the trees again and soon the other two return. Legolas' bandages are stained and trailing and he pulls them off as he walks beside the gentle Roch for a time, one hand upon her great shoulder.

"If you are to speak of us, speak kindly in earshot," Idhren complains. "Do not believe him Gimli; Almárean speaks of our acquaintance as though I was a lost waif left behind. In truth he was a friendless and disagreeable thing until I consented to become companion to him. No elf should walk shunned all of his days, no matter how dull and silent they are."

"Silent only since you speak so often!" Almárean disputes, and now they are lost to us. They will be a long time discussing this.

Legolas pulls himself lightly back upon Roch and our two mounts walk side by side, their heavy footsteps thudding into the soft forest floor. A magpie grates in the deepness of the trees and some other bird calls mournfully, the sad cry echoing around us. The trees here are tall and old, their boughs spread wide and gnarled, and I notice that both Idhren and Legolas brush their fingers to every branch that we pass close enough to. We are in the heartwood, and even I feel the age of it but I realise that these elves have known these trees since they were saplings. I push this to the back of my mind; it makes my head spin sometimes to think on it.

By afternoon the sky has finally betrayed us and the sunlight is swapped for heavy rain. We push the horses as much as the wood will allow so that we can reach shelter before nightfall, and although we are silent and hidden beneath the hoods of our cloaks the mood is not heavy. We ford a wide but shallow river that rills like quicksilver across a bed of shale and Naurwen prances like a foal through the dancing water, drenching any part of me that was not already soaked through. Legolas' delighted laughter does not quell my loud cursing and my horse seems entirely unconcerned by my threats. She snorts and tosses her head, and then hurries to catch up with the other horses now that the deed is done.

Well before night falls the elves lead me unerringly to a fir tree so wide of bole and thick of canopy that the three of us can camp quite comfortably out of the rain beneath it. There is evidence that this has been used as a camp site many times before, and the two Silvan elves greet it as an old friend whilst Almárean finds a stash of dry firewood as though he hid it there himself. Perhaps he did. He replaces it with wet wood so that it may dry in time for the next traveller caught in the rain and we make camp.

It is Idhren's watch, and Almárean sees to the horses so that Legolas and I are left alone to build the fire and make our meal. Of course Legolas is forbidden from the latter, and I take much time and pleasure in preparing our evening repast before realising that my friend has not spoken. I turn to see him sat hunched with his arms folded and his hands tucked away, his face pinched and raw.

"Why not speak if they are hurting you so much?" I chide softly. I hold my hands out, and after a brief moment of thought he allows it, placing his hands in mine. I turn them and examine them but other than the scarring there is nothing visible. He hides them away again.

"Ai, they hurt Gimli," he murmurs quietly. He does not want his men to hear. They are his friends, truly, but he has never been my captain. "My very bones burn, I feel wrongness stir within me and I know not how to cleanse it."

"Perhaps we should return? The healers may help."

He shakes his head. I know that this sort of wound cannot be healed and so I say no more on it. Legolas raises his face to the sky and I know that he seeks the stars but they are dark tonight. I touch one hand to his arm and pull his attention back from wandering.

"We will find a way to make you yourself again my friend," I promise him. "I know not yet how, but there must be a way."

If he believes my promise to be an empty thing he does not show it. He smiles warmly at me in any case and stands to pull off whatever clothing he can spare losing to lay around the fire to dry, feeling no chill in just damp breeches and undershirt. He is gone and back shortly with a brace of hares which go very well into the pot, and he is more himself by the time Almárean and Idhren rejoin us to eat our meal. The two sit beside one another as is their way; barely speaking but not needing to.

I wrap myself in my cloak and fall asleep to the sound of pattering rain upon leaf and loam. Out of habit I seek out the elf as my eyes hang heavily and I see him sat out of the reach of the fire: a ghost limned by starlight as the clouds break. His head tilts up to them, like a flower to the sun but his body is curled tightly about itself as though he cradles some hurt deep within. I fall asleep with the words of my lady swirling around my head and I dream poorly indeed.

It is very early when I wake; it is chill, the sky is barely paling. Water drips heavily from the trees and for a while I do not know what has woken me. I find myself alone. My elven companions do not have need for sleep as I do and so long as one watches the others will often take their leave to scout the road ahead, to wander the trees or sit up in the high places to watch the stars. The fire has been kept burning for me and I watch the flames for a while, my eyes drooping again as I start to sink back into sleep but then I hear what has woken me… a soft whine.

The horses are nearby and one snorts and stamps in response to the noise. I am awake now; I search for the sound, so out of place and pull myself upright. There, in the undergrowth where the light barely reaches sits a dog. It is not a wild dog nor is it a wolf… it is a pet dog, that much is plain. It is of the kind bred for herding – black and white and well fed with ears pricked toward me. It whines again, an unhappy sound, and shuffles toward me slightly.

I have always liked dogs well enough; they are faithful where some creatures considered more civilised are not. I come to a crouch and speak lowly to it: nonsense words but it responds to my voice with the slightest movement of its tail. I still cannot see it clearly but I hold my hand out in friendship to hear an elven voice call to me from behind in cold warning.

"Gimli," Almárean speaks carefully. "Do not."

It is his tone and not his words that has me to my feet and stepping back a pace. He is frightened, and I trust his better senses. As I take a step away from the dog its demeanour changes; it lowers its head in a shadow of its wild cousins and it growls a chilling warning to us. A pet it may be, but there is little of the pet about it now. It stalks into the firelight, and what I see sickens me.

In no nightmare or delusion of the mind is this creature alive. Its throat is torn out, its fur matted and gore streaked and its eyes are white clouded with death but still it moves, still it stalks toward us. It is a dead thing given life, and I can smell the corruption of it now. The horses have begun to fret and squeal, and I back away toward Almárean who has not moved since he spoke.

The dog stops when the fire is between us, its attention is wholly diverted by the flames and I recognise it. Oh, how I recognise it now. I feel fear as I had never thought to feel it again and my head begins to ache. I reach one hand out to grab at Almárean but I need not worry, he will not approach the creature nor leave me here. I feel the electric thrill of fear coming from him and I know that he has seen it before me – his eyes see more than mine, and he recognised it first.

The dog whines again and where before it was a pitiful sound, now it is chilling.

It looks to me and it knows me. I am seen, and there is hatred in those dead, flat eyes. It gathers its haunches and I know that it prepares to leap; we are to be torn apart by the corpse of someone's pet dog, and for all the ridiculousness of it I cannot move the few paces it would take me to reach my axe. My courage has all been spent on this shadow and I cannot find it in me again right now… but I have faith in a far greater source of courage than my own.

As the creature gets ready to fly at us there is a whistling noise from the trees beside us, and an arrow fletched in familiar green and yellow sings through the air to stop the creature dead in its tracks. The arrow beds itself deep in the animal's neck, and I know that no matter what is animating it, nothing can walk or move with a severed spine. It is dead again, and I see a wisp of darkness exhaled in its last unnatural breath.

Legolas is there then with Idhren and his eyes are wide and filled with horror. His eyes meet mine and I know that he has recognised it too; it is the Shadow, no longer a ragged woman, no longer far behind us but here now and hunting us in stolen bodies. There is no time for us to speak on it; Idhren and Legolas have found something, and they pull us away into the trees.

The sky is beginning to brighten and so the path is not too dark for me to keep pace with them. I grip my axe with a hand white with the strain of how tightly I hold it, and I force my mind to remain blank. I will not let fear overtake me. I listen to Idhren explaining that they had found signs of spiders and tracked them this way. I hear his voice but it is Legolas that I watch. He leads the procession and his face is emotionless and cold, frightening in intensity.

We do not run for long; we are barely in daylight when we come across the remains of a camp. There is a small wagon still filled with covered over belongings, a cold fireplace and even a small pair of shoes left behind. Spiders have spun a huge net of silver about the wagon; the first sign we have seen of the creatures through our whole journey. It is tangled from the trees and over a nearby bush, and completely over the lifeless bulk of a grey dray horse. It is like spun silver but it sends cold down my spine. The elves seem unafraid and approach the giant web; this is something that they know.

"Three," Idhren speaks from the camp site. He is crouched to the ground, his fingers tracing the wet ash. "A man, a woman, a young girl. Beset by spiders perhaps two nights ago, it is hard to tell after the rain. The dog was theirs."

"So where are their bodies?" I ask, knowing I voice the question that they all ask.

"Here," Legolas stands close enough to the wall of web to make my skin crawl. There are two twisted, desiccated shells hanging in a shroud of white silk. I cannot make out what they may have been in life, but in death they are sad and empty things. "Here they were left to hang, and here one climbed back down again a day later."

TBC

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**Oh dear, guess who's back!**

**Firstly, apologies - I know I said I was considering posting this over the Jubilee weekend but I've struggled to get this chapter to flow correctly. I'm still not 100% sure on bits of it but I'm just staring blankly at it now, and sometimes you just have to take that leap!**

**Secondly, thank you guys so much. I no longer feel so lonely :)  
It was really nice to see a bunch of anonymous reviewers getting in touch - I'm sorry I can't reply to you all individually but thank you so much, it was lovely to hear from you and hopefully it won't be the last time. It really does make things worthwhile to see you there.**

**Chapter 5 will still be up on schedule, so you should see it Friday or Saturday, and I appear to be rambling so I'm going to go now. I have also upgraded the rating on this fic because thinking about it, walking zombie dogs is most definitely NOT the worst thing you're going to see. **

**Hope you enjoyed it and hope to hear from you. See you soon!**

**MyselfOnly**


	5. Chapter 5

The horses when we return are skittish and white eyed. They were not tethered this night but they are elvish horses and free to roam, ready to return at a call and although they are brave enough to have remained by our camp they are afraid of what remains of the dog. Almárean, silent as ever and grim faced, disposes of the body quickly and is back whilst Legolas and Idhren comfort the animals with soft words and soothing hands.

"We must return to the palace," I say, leaning upon my axe. "We must find reinforcements before we take a single step further."

Legolas' lip lifts slightly in a hiss of disgust but he does not look at me, his eyes are fixed on Roch but they do not see her – they are elsewhere. "We were mistaken to walk away from the Shadow the first time we crossed its path Gimli," he says heatedly.

"Aye, and then we went right ahead and did as you said we should not. We went just the four of us as we are now, and look how well we fared then! We should do now as we should have done before and return to your father for reinforcements."

"We are here now!"

"We are not enough!" I shout back. He glares and he is angry but the anger is not for me – he is afraid, and my elf hides fear with anger. "It is the Shadow, Legolas, have you forgotten all we endured? I know not how the dog was stopped so easily, the woman it hid within at our last encounter shook off the blows of my axe as though they were the gentlest of taps. We are not enough for this!"

"These are _our _woods!" Legolas snaps at me through teeth clenched tight. His eyes are aflame and his fists clenched at his side. "I will not flee from it here."

"It would make you no less," Idhren speaks softly. He does not quail beneath his prince's baleful glare but whilst he does not falter, neither does he fawn. He speaks plainly and honestly. "Almárean and I believe the same as Master Gimli – we are not enough for this. Our first duty is to you my prince and we will follow wherever you will lead, but you lead us to a fight we are unprepared for with a foe we do not understand."

I realise once again that I am still inexperienced in the manipulation of Legolas. Idhren has instantly shamed him. His men will follow him for his protection but he is responsible for the danger they are faced against should they do so. If he does this out of his own pride then it is doubly shameful and he hangs his head, beaten. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat and when he opens them they flicker to the sky as though looking for stars hidden by the dawn.

"Then it is as you say," he relents, his voice softens but it is false calm. "We return to the palace, and let us hope that none come to any harm whilst it runs amok in Lasgalen the days between."

"If it did, it would be no fault of yours," I tell him, but the look he gives me betrays the anger he still feels in his heart. _'Give me no false words nor empty comfort, I need it not from you,' _his eyes tell me, and I am chastised.

We turn upon the trail and we are back upon our own footsteps, but this time it is a different journey. I feel a dwarf more keenly than I have ever been made to feel in the company of elves; I know my companions would be within the trees were I not here but I am, and so I find myself at a steady canter with one elf and two lone horses at all points of the day. At first Legolas scouts ahead and Almárean takes the rear whilst Idhren rides with me, then their positions change, and change again. They can keep pace with the horses as I never could, and so I feel a useless lump clinging to the back of Naurwen whilst they form a vanguard.

I am left too alone with my thoughts and they spin and choke me. I am afraid and I am angered with myself for it. I have encountered darkness before, I have fought it and been victorious my entire adult life. I have lived with the ever present sense of the things that share my world beneath the ground but this is different, and I know not why. I fear it and I cannot master this fear. I fear for my friend who I know is touched by it. No matter how he hides the pain he feels it is growing and is no longer confined to his hands and arms, it is deep within him and I know not how to heal him. I recall Galadriel's words and I do not know how they help, I do not know what to do. I am failing him and leaving him to the Shadow all over again and I doubt… by Eru do I doubt myself.

We stop only to water and rest the horses, and I try to speak with Legolas but he will not allow it. He is gone into the trees at the first sign of my approach and Almárean sees it. He is crouched by the river in which the horses drink filling his own water skin, and he speaks quietly to me.

"Do not be grieved," he tells me. "All the Silvan folk are afflicted the same; it is not you that he is angered with."

"It is no matter to me," I reply gruffly, and busy myself with my pack. It is likely that I fool him no more than I fool myself. I am stung by the elf's coldness as I would never have believed I could be and I do not understand why – he has been this way before and it has not concerned me. Perhaps I need his company now more than I have before.

The rest is brief and we are back upon the trail in short time. I am not built for the saddle and I am becoming weary of the pace we set but I will not complain when the elves are travelling much of the way off horseback. It is late afternoon before I realise that the sky is darker than the time of day warrants. I look to the sky and a vast storm is building, the light is becoming like twilight and I cannot think a worse thing to happen than this. We had hoped to have more of the road behind us before we lost the light but it seems we must stop sooner than expected; we have not travelled at night thus far because of what emerges during the darkness in Mirkwood, no matter how far north we are and now there is all the more cause for caution. My fears are realised when I hear a shouted _"Daro!" _from the trees.

I ride with Idhren, and Legolas drops from the trees ahead as Almárean lopes to us from the rear. A wind has picked up and I had not realised whilst we rode but now I feel it heaving against me – the trees about us creak and groan and roar with the power of it.

The elves are concerned, I can see it plain upon their faces and I hear a distant rumble of thunder as the first drops of rain touch my face.

"I cannot imagine a worse time for this!" Legolas complains. He strikes the rough bark of a beleaguered young beech tree lightly out of frustration, then touches it again as though seeking strength. "It is like nightfall already and it will storm the night through, we are near no shelter and will have no fire in this."

"Anything that walked away from that web will be in no condition to catch up with us now," Idhren speaks but Almárean shakes his head.

"It is not confined to dead things, remember you the crows?"

The crows. How might I forget the crows? There is a further flurry of wind driven rain, and I wonder how we have managed to go the entire spring through in weather fairer than this when we are only three days into our journey and have spent two of them getting wet. This has been a poor hunting trip, that is to be said, but I would be happy now never to hunt a spider in my life if it means we will reach the palace unmolested.

"If we cannot stop and build a fire then should we stop at all?" I ask. Legolas considers this at length and then shakes his head.

"I do not wish to be caught in flight if we are caught at all. The horses are weary and it is better to find a place and defend it, if defence is even needed."

His words are made ominous by a silver flash and in short time, a rolling echo from the sky builds and peaks and fades over us in languorous discontent. It begins to rain in earnest now and we are drenched in no time at all; it is rain that can make a dwarf feel entirely at the mercy of the world, hard and cruel and blinding. The horses look miserable and Naurwen cannot even seem to find the spirit to take her displeasure out on me. We lead them through the trees and settle in the most sheltered place we can find: a close stand of pine with barely enough coverage to keep us dry.

It is close and heavy beneath the trees and the needles itch where they scratch. Water has found its way beneath my collar and it is yet another source of discomfort: I hunch myself into my cloak and I am shut off from the others. Legolas is out in the rain: I can see him as a faded and blurred outline stood on a thick branch lower than he usually favours. The trees are caught in a wind too high even for an elf to mount an effective watch, but he is concealed by his stillness and blends against the tree as though he grows from it. Idhren sits with me. I know not where Almárean has gone to.

"I am sorry that your hunting trip has gone awry, Master Gimli."

I am broken from my reverie and look to see Idhren beside me. His face is still and impassive but his eyes are alight as they always are; his cheerful gaze even in this unpleasant evening should irritate me but it does not. I cannot seem to find myself irritated by Idhren.

"Shadows or no, I would still be wet this moment," I wave it aside. "There will be other hunting trips and I have been promised that at least one spider will be saved for me." I see Legolas shift for the first time in his motionless watch; he can hear me so I add: "even if the one who has promised me is currently sulking in a tree."

There is a very visible twitch this time and I smirk to myself. It is childish, but I am not beyond my childish moments from time to time.

"He is worried," Idhren chides.

"He will melt out there," I grumble, unconcerned. Idhren graces me with a brief smile of amusement before shifting himself into a more comfortable position, resting his elbows upon his knees and glancing up to the sky. It is a familiar gesture, one I know well.

"When we were young, when we first travelled with Almárean together and before he had any command at all, even then Legolas felt a great deal of responsibility for us. He was the youngest and yet felt deeply his birthright; he and his father have led us alone for a long time. Even before the Queen passed did he feel the weight of our people upon his shoulders, and even greater still since then."

"Friends do not carry friends as a burden," I mutter.

"You hear me wrong," Idhren shakes his head, disappointed. "Ever do friends feel the love they have for each other as a weight in their heart. It is a happy weight to carry, but it is great. Our people feel strongly, it is our curse. Legolas has the heart and soul of the _laegrim, _but his Silvan and Sindarin sides do not always agree."

I do not answer. What answer is there to give? I am cold and wet and my own fear has pushed me into an unpleasant mood. I am unwilling to hear Idhren's excuses for his friend's inability to master his own tempers any longer and after a while he sighs, stands and leaves me to walk out into the rain. He goes to Legolas and for a while I think myself abandoned to my own poor company but it is not long before Legolas jumps from the tree to come to me, and Idhren takes his place.

Legolas is drenched right through and he brings with him the scent of the rain. There is another deep roll of thunder as he sits heavily by my side, and he shivers although it is not cold. He does not look at me.

"Idhren says I am to come and speak to you," he tells me simply. "Although I know not why; you seemed quite content discussing me without my being here."

"Idhren is a good friend to you, whether you deserve it or not. I do not wish your company if you are to gripe and snap all the night through."

He stands to leave and I close my eyes for the briefest moment. Eru give me strength for I have none for this!

"Sit, Legolas," I sigh. I do not make it a request but rather yank at his shirt until he is back upon his behind. He echoes my sigh greatly but settles himself back against the trunk of a pine tree, a furtive glance shifts in my direction and he seems to have lost his fight. He must be tired and far more discomfited than I am.

"It feels wrong leaving here," he tells me. He is explaining himself; it is the closest I will come to an apology. "Every part of me says '_do not go, much is left here' _and it is like an itch at the back of my skull. It has been long since I have run to Ada at the first sign of trouble."

"This is hardly the first, nor even the second sign of trouble!" I snort. "And it is not your Ada to whom you run; we will return better situated for this."

"Should he ever allow me to leave the palace again!"

"Perhaps you should remain there," I offer cautiously, and the look I am given might strip the leaves from the very trees.

"I am not an elfling," he grits.

"Then cease acting as one!" I entreat. I feel my irritation begin to build again; he understands nothing! "You are affected by this Shadow and do not deny it. You carry a part left behind in you and it has only grown since we have come closer to it, what happens if it tries to take you over Legolas? It is seeking a host as it did with the woman in the house by the river. The crows, whilst not _crebain_, are enough of their blood to be influenced by darkness. The dog was already dead and easily stopped but now there is another. What next, after this? I fear it, Legolas. Remember the words that Galadriel bid me, what if this is what she has seen?"

My friend has deflated. He sits with his knees up and watches his hands where they are hidden in his lap.

"I have not forgotten," he tells me lowly. "And I fear it too. I know what is in me; I feel the ache of it with every beat of my heart and I hear dark whispers now telling me black things. It is as though we travel with the One Ring again."

I am frozen by that. I had not known that it speaks to him. "Then we must return to the palace, and if your father keeps you there then you must stay for the sake of those foolish enough to care for you. If he does not keep you there then I most certainly will!"

He gives me a wry look. He knows I could do no such thing but he accepts the words for what they are and fights me no further. He looks again to the sky and leans his head back against the tree.

"By Elbereth I wish for the stars tonight," he breathes. "Our friends are in danger, Gimli. _You _are in danger."

"It is not you who have put us there, and grant us more faith: we are all grown warriors… some more grown than others aye but we do not need you to protect us."

He rolls his head a bare fraction until he is looking at me, and the first playful smile that I have seen since this morning graces a face weary with whatever struggle he fights within himself.

"You have just wasted a lot of breath Gimli, telling me I should allow myself to be protected only then to say you need none of mine. You are making less sense than usual."

"If I am it is only because I have spent too long with elves," I grunt. He is right; I have spoken myself into a corner. "Be quiet."

The smile grows for a moment, and I feel a part of me that has been clenched and knotted all day ease and fall into stillness. I breathe easier for it. The elf allows his eyes to close for a while; he does not sleep, not with them closed that way, but I am satisfied that he gets some rest. His fingers twitch at times and I know they pain him but there is little I can do for my friend – I wonder what Aragorn would do if he were here and my mind falls empty. I often wonder if even Aragorn knows what Aragorn is to do from one moment to the next, there is no knowing it.

"Your nostrils flare when you are vexed," he speaks unexpectedly. "Your face is all about hair so I must often rely on them to tell me your mood; it gives you much the look of an angry pony."

For a moment I am shocked into silence but I cannot help myself; I laugh and it is loud after so much quiet, but by stone and stars do I feel the better for it.

"Get some rest Legolas," I tell him. "Your friends are watching… all will be well."

And he believes it, and for a short time he rests.

TBC

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**Right, my good friends. I'm going to apologise now, in advance, for everything that happens from here onward. I'm *hoping* not to be chased by too many people waving pitchforks over the next few chapters but it's always best to get these things out of the way. I'm aware that a whole lot of very little just happened, and I have raised more questions than I've answered, but bear with me. We just hit a turning point.**

**Massive thanks to my usual reviewers, a few new faces and of course those of you who choose to remain anonymous yet still have a kind word to say. Those review notifications keep a smile on my face.**

**Hope you enjoyed, and have a wonderful weekend.**

**MyselfOnly**


	6. Chapter 6

When the spiders come there is no surprise to it.

It is late in the afternoon, perhaps it is evening already but we cannot tell by the light. The storm has only grown and we have given up trying to keep dry. The wind has become a noise that we are used to; the creak of the trees and hushing of leaves a presence with us here in the darkness. The rain is wind driven and sometimes it calms, sometimes it is a frantic deluge but always it is there. There is lightening and there is thunder, it comes and it goes, but I am planted beneath the trees deep within my cloak, and if I seem like I have shut myself off from my surroundings then it is certainly not the case. I notice it in the elves before they speak, before Legolas sits upright from his reverie and before the whistle comes from the trees far to our right, I notice. I see the change in them and I know that something comes: I am up and have my axe in my hand before I need to be told a thing.

"_Telir din," _Almárean murmurs. He is from the trees with barely a sound and Idhren jogs lightly to us. Legolas nods shortly; he directs them both aloft, flanking us as we move out into the rain and they are both away as fast and as silent as spirits. There is no sign now of the strain within my friend; no pain in his movement, no shadow haunting his gaze. He has his bow at the ready, and his eyes peer through the deluge and darkness as though it is clear daylight.

I feel myself calmer than I have been all day. All of my doubt is swept away and all of my fear. This is something I know; my axe in my hand and my friend at my side, and I root my feet into the ground, taking comfort from the distant whisper of Song that I feel there. I know nothing of the rain that blinds me, nor of the wind that deafens me, and I feel my heart thumping solidly in my chest. There is air in my lungs, and I am calm.

I recall what I have been told of the spiders; their weaknesses, their strengths, how they attack and what I should expect. When I see them though I do not think that anything could have prepared me.

They are a slinking whisper of shadow at first, there and then gone. They are movement where there should be none, a trick of the light, a glint of red eye shine and a whisper of carapace against bark. I feel the sudden disgorge of rain that comes from a disturbed tree bough but I do not look up. I know not to let them distract me... that is what Almárean and Idhren watch for.

They do not rush us but rather slink and hide themselves but they are there, I know that they are there and they are many.

"The Shadow is within them," Legolas murmurs to me. "They are pawns as the crows were."

"Then it searches still," I reply. "It has not yet found a host that it likes, and so they can be killed."

He gives a grim nod and there is a smile upon his face that I do not like the look of; it is cold and fey and it unsettles me.

"Close your heart to it Legolas," I instruct him. He does not take his eyes from the approaching threat nor does the predatory glint fade from his face but he hears me, he nods again and the eager smile drops away.

I see my first spider then, emerging completely into the open and I know that I should not be surprised but I am. It is ebony with unpleasant brown mottling, and its body is the size of a cart wheel with thick legs spanning even wider – no giant from the south but a good size nonetheless. It is joined by others and some are larger, some are smaller but they are many, and they are quick. They revolt me as I could not have foreseen. They are wrongness, a blight… a cry of pain within the Song. Everything about them – their skittering legs and movement like spilled ink, their cold gimlet eyes and grabbing maw – fills me with disgust, but I push it back and keep my feet rooted.

The elves set to quick work with their bows and I know to wait. Idhren and Almárean cover our flank whilst Legolas focuses on those before us; their arrows are swift and true and they do not miss a single one. They aim for the larger beasts, the boldest and the quickest. They bury their arrows in the carapace behind the creature's heads killing them quickly, removing the greatest threats from the swarm before their arrows run dry. Once they are gone Legolas discards his bow for his knives, and then we are all four of us upon the ground together. I remember my lessons; I do not rush into the fray as I have always done but we stand in a loose circle so that our backs are protected. The spiders are cunning and will draw hunters out, cutting them off and carrying them away. We allow them no such opportunity.

The elves are silent and fast as is their way; their fight is a dance that they have known the steps to since birth. The three have fought together for centuries and it shows in their anticipation of each others' movements, of how they need not speak nor signal to communicate but I am no stranger to the dancing of elves. I have learned an efficiency of movement these last years; I am not the bellowing and headstrong Gimli that set out to Rivendell, I no longer rush about waving my axe. My fight is now restrained, precise; powerful as stone and mountain but certain and true as a hammer blow. We work with deadly efficacy and for a long time it seems we are to be victorious.

There are many of them but we are united and strong, and they fall before us like grass in the wind. I have no time to fear those empty, soulless eyes. I feel disgust at their skeletal, skittering movement and I can see their fangs more closely than I ever wished to. The gore that is the result of a spider of this size meeting the swing of an axe is revolting and my stomach churns with it, but I continue: I swing and I hew and I hammer them into twitching dead things. I have no time to fear, but all of that is changed in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

There is a shriek, and it is a shriek I never thought to hear again: the scream of the Shadow. It is a nerve shattering sound of insanity and hate that robs me of my courage and grips my heart in ice. I falter, Idhren and Almárean stumble but Legolas cries in pain and clutches at his chest. It calls to him, and he is to his knees but I am there. I keep him upright as much as I can and the two warriors reposition themselves to protect their prince. They fight on.

"To your feet, Legolas!" I hiss at him urgently. "You must fight it!"

"_Nidh," _he chokes out. He presses the heel of his hand to his heart as though it is to burst within him. "I feel it Gimli, it is cold. It scratches at my heart and I cannot stop it."

I look to the two elves about us in desperation, and for a brief moment I lock eyes with Almárean - the briefest brush of a gaze.

"_Hain dago!" _He shouts to Idhren, my panic spreading to him. "We have not the time for this. Legolas has not the time!"

I do not know what the mistake is when it is made but the consequences I do see, and I am powerless to stop it. Whether it is fear or haste or a combination of the two the spiders finally breach the solid defences that we have maintained throughout our fight, and Almárean gasps in pain as his thigh is slashed by a pair of fangs. I prop Legolas as well as I can and it breaks my heart to see him trying to rise, trying to join us, wanting to fight but I am needed. Idhren is distracted now, Almárean limps and the spiders can smell his blood – they have revived and are frenzied.

I battle again – we are only three and the Shadow shrieks once more, but this time the eldritch sound rips a raw and anguished cry from Legolas, and the two sounds ring out as one. He is twisted and curled about himself on the forest floor, his head tilted back into the rain and his eyes search widely for the comfort of his stars. The only thing that heartens me is that the Shadow is frustrated, I can hear it. We are all four of us fighting in our own way right now.

I am knocked from one side and tripped as I stumble. I am on the floor and twist to land on my back, I pull forth my axe and am ready when the skittering and hideous creature falls upon me. It has a boot to whatever foul substance it has for a gut and is thrown clear by its own momentum. I am back upon my feet to cleave it in half but the time this takes is enough to find a smaller creature upon my back. It bites me and by Eru it is like being bitten by flames but by pure luck it is too small to break through the thick leather of my jerkin. I throw myself back and crush it between me and the sturdy bole of a tree, satisfied by the crunch I feel as it breaks and falls away, but as I look back to my friends I realise that we have become separated.

Idhren alone still fights at his prince's side but he is torn between his friends. Almárean is stricken and is too far away, just as I am too far away. Perhaps ten strides are between us but it is too much distance for so few of us. I make to re-join them and I call to Almárean to do the same; he is a soldier and obeys the call to regroup without question but it is then that I feel a sting in my hand, and when I look down I know that I have made a terrible error in judgement. The spider; crushed and on the ground is not dead. It is very nearly so but not quite, and in my distraction it has risen and it has bitten me.

I know that spider venom is not deadly, not from one so small but it will affect me nevertheless, indeed I feel it even now. I finish the creature once and for all with a blow of my axe filled so with revulsion that it splits it clean in half, and I run over to the others in time to see Almárean knocked from his feet. Idhren shouts in dismay and makes as if to help him but stops at the last moment, looking to Legolas who has pulled himself onto one side and is gasping beneath a curtain of dripping hair.

"Go!" I tell him. "I will stay with him."

Idhren looks to me with the most heartfelt thanks and is gone in a moment, racing to Almárean's side. I crouch beside Legolas and grip his shoulder, and I feel him lean into me heavily seeking my strength. He is gasping – his back heaving as he seeks to quell whatever is within him but he growls in frustration and tries to rise again. I see that in one hand he still clutches one of his knives; I doubt he can even stand right now but still he fights to join us in battle. I swipe water away from my face but it is not the rain that clouds my vision now, I am feeling the effects of the venom and the world is beginning to tunnel.

"You are bitten," Legolas mumbles.

"And you are going to fall flat on your face if you do not stop trying to rise," I snap back. Legolas pushes his soaking hair from his face and looks to his friends; they both fight to protect us but they are just two, and Legolas shoves at me. I am surprised by the strength still in him and he is up, although swaying, and retrieves the other knife from the ground. The look in his eyes chills me to the bone but it is not the Shadow that I see in him, it is Legolas.

It is the Legolas that has fought the darkness through the ages, it is the Legolas who has led his men in battle more times that I can fathom and has been looked to by his people for courage through all of the centuries gone. All of this is there in his eyes, and I am proud to call myself his friend in this moment.

He is fighting again and although he is fast and although he is graceful he is running on strength he did not have to begin with, he is not himself. He is knocked and he is slashed but the spiders seem unwilling to do him real harm; they do not wish the chosen host damaged. I am up and fighting again as well but I can barely see now and my breath is laboured and painful, rasping through a throat suddenly as dry as dust. Almárean limps and holds one arm to him, Idhren favours his side and blood runs freely down from his scalp but we are joined again in a tight circle.

The spiders cease. We are surrounded and we stand tightly, back to back and facing them in readiness but they do not move. A sea of shining crimson eyes regard us and now there is a curiosity there, a regard without feeling or emotion of its own but it seeks to understand us. Why do we fight as we do? Why do we protect one another when sense would say to flee? Why do we continue when strength is failing us and why can it not defeat us as easily as it had thought to?

It does not understand, but never has the Shadow shown any intelligence or sign of a thinking mind before now. I tuck the information away for later consideration and struggle to remain upon my feet as the floor seems to buck and heave beneath me. Idhren reaches out to steady me, perhaps the only one of the four of us unlikely to simply fall alongside me should I tip.

The Shadow watches us through a thousand cold eyes. Between us the rain thunders down: I can hear all four of us breathing heavily over the sound of it but oddly all feels still for a moment. Something builds, something is to happen and I blink and fight my way through the greying of my vision so that I am ready for it.

When they attack, they attack as one and we cannot hold back such a tide. They are too many, and we are too hurt and tired and too few. We brace ourselves ready to fight as best we can though I hold no hope, but as we are enveloped in the chittering and slashing wave there is a sound I do not recognise. It is a roar, of a kind, but it is also a squeal. It is made in a cavernous chest, it is furious and I am surprised to find that whatever has caused such a terrible sound is not attacking us.

I look and in all my days I never thought to see such a thing. For a moment I cannot fathom it.

It is Naurwen. She has bitten her ropes clean through and she is here, kicking and biting and crushing the spiders. My little firebrand, my spirited tormenter has come to our rescue and she is like a wild thing, maddened with rage and protecting us... protecting me. She swirls and churns the ground to mud, rearing and scattering the spiders like they are a mere irritation. She is bitten and slashed until her coat runs with blood but she shakes them off as though they are nothing to her.

It is more than enough now, I cannot fight any further. My limbs are lead, my mind is fog and I wheeze terribly. I can stay awake no longer, but I have pause to think that the sight of a horse doing battle with giant spiders is something I shall tell tale of for many years to come, should I survive this night.

~{O}~

I am wakened to unpleasantness.

I have dreamed, although I know I have not been asleep for long. My dreams have been vivid and wild – slashes of colour and feeling, and for a moment I am not sure whether I am truly wakened or if this is simply some other aspect of my dream. I feel the rain upon my face and the ground beneath me, and I remember how it is I have come to be here. There is hot, hay scented breath upon my face and a hairy muzzle nudges insistently at my head; it is Naurwen and I shove her away gently as I rise. The world tilts and sways about me but I feel better once I am upright.

"Gimli," I hear my name called, and the voice is tight and strained but thankful. It is Almárean. "Thank Elbereth, you waken."

I look for him and find him sat a short distance away. He crouches beside Legolas who is wan and shaking, and curled in upon himself around some hurt. He does not look up to see me, I am unsure as to how he fares but Almárean looks terrible. He is pale and bloody and his eyes are wild.

"The bite was not grievous," he tells me. "The spider was too small; you will feel more yourself soon."

I reach up and pat Naurwen upon the neck, she nuzzles at me still and I wish to reassure her that I am well. I mutter to her lowly and tell her that she is a good horse, a very good horse indeed. Her flank twitches with the discomfort of the scratches she has received and she is bloody and foam flecked but she is made of grit and fire, my horse, and I know she will be well. I will be sure of it.

"Where is Idhren?" I ask, looking about the carnage strewn forest.

"Taken," Almárean tells me and his voice cracks with the strain of it. My head whips to him so fast I feel my neck crack in protest and I understand now the look upon his face. He is frantic. "They could not take Legolas so they have taken him. I believe they do not wish us to leave but rather follow."

"Then we must follow," Legolas speaks for the first time, and both Almárean and I turn to him. His voice is hoarse and when he raises his head his face is pinched and haunted, but his eyes are resolute, his tone tempered with anger and iron.

"_Baw, ernil nin," _Almárean shakes his head in protest. "My duty is to you, we must return you to the palace. We will return for him."

"I am not to be swayed in this Almárean, nor by you Gimli," he turns to ensure that I am not about to argue also. "I will lose no more friends to this wood, not now that we are in peace and not for my account. It is _Idhren!_"

"You can barely stand Legolas," I say, and it comes out as a whisper.

"I am not defeated yet," he gives a weary smile. "We will send Idhren's horse back; she is swift and clever, she will lead riders back here and we will leave a trail that even a dwarf can follow. If the Shadow wishes me to follow then we will follow, we will find our friend and we will put an end to it this time."

My words fall unspoken, I cannot argue. I know my elf and I know when he is beyond persuasion but I also cannot bring myself to force this. It is Idhren indeed, how can we abandon him? I wonder if this is the path that we should not be taking, if this right here is the decision we should not make and if it is I know that we are taking the wrong path… but how can we take any other? Do I allow this to happen and sacrifice Legolas for an elf I have known only since the spring? Can I even persuade him from this? I remember the hands that healed me through my fevers and brought me back from the brink of passing. I remember forest green eyes and a musical voice so quick to laugh, and I cannot find it in me to argue with Legolas. I wish to find him as well.

Almárean hangs his head, he cannot face us. I imagine myself in his place if our positions were reversed and for a moment I feel the agony he must feel. I go to him and I am only slightly unsteady on my feet now, I grasp his arm and his fingers wrap about my wrist. Quiet Almárean… so afraid for his friend. He accepts the comfort and for a moment all three of us share the exact same thoughts:

We will get him back.

TBC

* * *

_Translations:_

_Telir din - they come_

___Nidh - it hurts_

_____Hain dago! - kill them!_

_______Baw, ernil nin - no, my prince_

**So...erm, sorry to leave it there! Double apologies to those who have bonded with Idhren, it hurts me too you guys.**

**You'll be happy to know that chapter 7 is nice and long, and will be posted on Saturday so the wait shouldn't be too terrible. Please drop a penny into the hat by pressing the Review button, let me know you're there and what your thoughts are so far. It's all the sustenance I need.**

**Hope you enjoyed it and see you again soon**

**MyselfOnly**


	7. Chapter 7

Legolas will not let us go a step from here until we have seen to our injuries.

We are all bleeding and bruised but it is only Almárean's leg that requires any real attention. A hasty bandage wraps about his thigh but we can do little as we are, soaked through and muddy in the middle of the night with no fire. There will be time when we stop to rest in the daylight once this storm has passed, but for now it must suffice.

Almárean is best with horses and he sees to Naurwen, but she is quite well enough to stamp upon his foot and he declares her fit, if a bit discomfited. The other horses are fetched and calmed, and Legolas spends a while whispering to Idhren's bay mare. He strokes her powerful neck with sweeping hands and she responds to him, whickering gently and butting him with her nose. He sends her upon her way and it is painful to see her go; we hope she will be well… we are in truth only perhaps a day's ride from the palace but it is a day we are unwilling to spare. I am struggling to place our safety in the keep of a horse but if Almárean and Legolas believe that she will find her way home and know to lead others here then I believe them. I have witnessed too much of the ways of elves to doubt them any longer.

The storm has started to abate by the time we are ready to leave. The wind is easing and the rain simply rain, no longer furious or as wild as it was and I am glad that we are in summer; I would hate to be drenched to the core as I am now and also have to contend with the cold. Almárean and Legolas spend a while collecting arrows from the unpleasantness that is the spider shells, now curled in upon themselves and drying into barley husks. I leave them to it. They are unconcerned due to the very number of years they have spent doing such things but I cannot even near the dead spiders. Cleaving them apart in the heat of battle is one thing, approaching them after the fact is quite another.

I saddle Naurwen and she is patient; I am bitten only once when I am too rough about one of her hurts, but it is only to show her displeasure and not meant to injure. I have finally learned why men and elves are so taken with their beasts; the fondness I feel for my cantankerous lady is unexpected and warm, and I spend time scratching her beneath the chin which she seems to enjoy. I know that Legolas sees me do this but I am unashamed and am ready to meet his mocking with a glare, but when I meet his eyes I feel it drain out of me. He is exhausted and pained and the look he gives to me is simple fondness.

Almárean and I climb onto our mounts but Legolas pauses, thinks and then speaks. His eyes are upon the ground but he does not see it.

"There is something I must tell you before we go," he speaks, and we wait. "When it cried out and I was stricken… for a moment I heard it. It could not gain purchase in my soul for all of its scratching and scrabbling but it would have. I was almost lost, I know it. We shared a mind for a time and oh, how it hates you."

It is me to whom he refers and I feel ice settle in my belly. His eyes bore into mine now and I see a trace of the Shadow there, even though he says he fought it away there is a sliver of it within him already. It is this which is giving it access, this which calls to it and says: _'here, here is your host'_. I wish I could dig it free and throw it to the furthest corners of the world but I cannot.

"Do you know what it is?" Almárean asks softly and Legolas shakes his head, breaking the unpleasant stare locked onto me.

"It has simply always been as it is," he says: "just a Shadow and full of anger. If it were ever any different then it does not recall it. It felt cold to me; a coldness that hurt worse than any wound or heat of fire. I felt it in here." He brushes his knuckles against his chest and he is looking far past us again, remembering the pain of it: the unclean touch of a mind within his own where none has any right to trespass. He is violated with it and he is afraid, he has no control over this.

"You kept it at bay, Legolas," I point out to him. "You are the stronger."

He gives me an odd smile. I cannot read it, I do not know it, and I am uncertain as to what it means until he speaks again.

"It is afraid of the light," he says. "I know that. I had no fire, no sun, no stars and so I showed it the light I carry within me. I showed it my Ada, my people, my friends. I showed it you all. The light I carry in my heart is just as bright as the sun and it could not withstand it."

I am taken aback. I am humbled. Mostly I am embarrassed. The elves speak so freely of such things; of friendship and of love and the caring they have for one another. Dwarves are unused to such displays of fondness and whilst I have grown far better used to it, I still do not always know how to respond. Instead I mumble something through my beard that alludes to the sappiness of elves, and hide my reddening face in the darkness. I am rewarded with a tired laugh, and Legolas finally pulls himself up onto Roch's sable back. There is stiffness to his movement but he is recovering himself, if slowly.

"It took Idhren because of what it saw in my heart," he tells us finally, gathering himself together again. His voice is firm, he has found his strength. "It will get its revenge upon you, Gimli, by coming through me. I do not intend to let it take such advantage nor will I forgive it for the harm it has inflicted upon my friends."

"You believe Idhren alive?" Almárean asks, and in his voice is fear but he has mastery of it now. Legolas nods but I see that he is not completely certain.

"It does not understand us," he says. "It has intelligence, of a kind, and I believe it will spare Idhren if only to watch him, to examine him. It has never before met creatures of the flesh and it envies us – oh how it envies us – but stronger than that is its want to understand what makes us shine. It is afraid of the light but it also yearns for it, and we are afire in its eyes."

I am uncomfortable with how well Legolas understands this creature but much has passed within him these last days. I cannot understand the struggle he has fought hidden from our eyes nor what he endured this night so I do not close my ears to his words nor do I stop him. I wish to understand as well; if I cannot stop this from happening to him then I must at least hear of it.

"It is a shame you are not a dwarf," I inform him. "I do not believe it would find such easy purchase in a creature made of stuff stronger than leaves and starlight."

It is a weak attempt at our usual humour but I feel that I must do something to bring my elves back to themselves. Our situation is dire, aye, but Legolas needs the strength of it and Almárean the distraction. I am rewarded for my efforts by two genuine, if weak, smiles.

"You are perhaps right Gimli," Almárean gives me a warm look. "It is well that you are with us then; there should be one of us at least able to keep his head. I am glad you are here."

And I am embarrassed again. I am saved from it by Legolas who has decided that we have tarried long enough and gives me one final look of thanks, and has us ready to depart in a moment. It is still too dark to run the horses but we lead at a brisk trot, walking when we cannot. The elves can see well enough and they lead the procession through the night, guiding their mounts who trust them implicitly to steer them true. We leave this place gladly, a charnel field of spider corpses, and the air is sweeter the farther we travel from it. I feel as though we have spent the last days treading back and forth upon our own tracks but after only a few hours Legolas turns east: the trail has turned and we are heading into lands we have not passed twice already. At least I am to see some different scenery.

~{O}~

By the morning the storm is passed and by my beard the sun feels marvellous upon my skin again! We are stopped to rest the horses; they are tired and I will admit that I am close to dropping myself. The sky is full of the remains of the storm; the wind is swift and there are vast clouds lumbering above us at speeds I care not to think on. Storm broken leaves and branches litter the ground and there are trails in the settled mud where water has swept it clear and danced patterns upon it. My own hair merely sways and shivers in the wind but the elves are ever brushing their hair from their faces; I do not understand why they wear it as they do, it must be a constant irritation to them but it seems to bother them not at all. Their eyes can see past leagues, seeing past hair should not overly bother them.

I am upon a wide flat rock taking great comfort from the feel of Arda as it rumbles and thrills through the stone, and I watch the elves for they are all there is to look upon right now. Both look similarly; they sit with all of the collected arrows shot by three bows and they check each one painstakingly. Some are discarded, some are set aside and others are divided between the two quivers. Once they have completed their cull of those too damaged for salvage they turn their attentions upon those that can be mended, and they set to this task.

They work with efficiency that speaks of familiarity; this is a scene that echoes throughout a great many years and I am quite fascinated to watch them. Almárean will do such and so, Legolas will then do another thing. They pass the arrows between them, their individual tasks natural to them and discussion is unnecessary. They work fast and their faces are set with concentration but it takes little time; they have been doing this for long years and know what they are about, and in no time each bears a full quiver again. They check their bows with the same diligence and then they set to their knives, cleaning the blades and inspecting them for notches and sharpness. I pass my gaze over my chipped and notched axe and feel disgrace.

Legolas checks Almárean's leg and is much satisfied in what he sees, then he insists upon seeing my bite no matter how strenuously I grumble about his fussing. The bite is sore still, but the effects of the venom are entirely worn off and although the wound is red it is clean, and it will heal well enough. Legolas himself seems much better in himself now; he is still tired looking and the light in his eyes is not right, not by any sense but I am satisfied that he is better than I expected him to be. He has found strength from somewhere and I hope to the Valar themselves that this strength is deep enough to carry him through.

He turns his attention then to the horses, and I am about ready to tell him to stop and rest but Almárean catches my eye and something there stays my tongue. Legolas is responsible for us all in his eyes, I understand this. I would normally argue the fact but I wonder for a glancing moment if it is this that is keeping him moving. I say nothing, just in case it is.

Roch is solid and gentle and strong as she ever is, stood fetlock deep in a slow moving and shallow stream. She butts Legolas with a great head dripping with water and he spends a moment breathing her air, whispering to her with his eyes closed and then leaves her to her refreshments. Almárean's handsome cream gelding, named Veren I have learned, has taken a stone to his hoof. Legolas runs his hands down his fine boned leg checking and pulls the foot up to inspect it. He is pleased by what he finds there and pats the amiable creature firmly before coming to Naurwen who paws water at him and whips her tail in his face. He stands for a moment, wipes the droplets of river from his brow and then laughs, and I cannot help but smile. It is a shadow of his normal carefree laugh but it is there in the undertone of it. He comes to me and regards my grumpy red horse with a perplexed look.

"She is certainly yours," he tells me. "I am surprised that such a spirit can be held in so small a shell."

"Lofty height means not a thing," I tell him archly. "The greatest of treasures are found most removed from the sky."

"Perhaps if it were not so confined her temper might be sweeter."

"I find her temper well enough," I shrug. "I have never had a horse I liked better."

"You have never before had a horse," he snorts, then rests one hip upon my rock. He watches the drinking beasts a while longer and then glances to Almárean whose gaze rests blankly upon the river. He hides his fear for Idhren, he has mastery of his emotion but it is plain as the very sky that he is deathly afraid. He is ready to claw out of his skin for the need to move, to run, to flee and chase after his friend but we must stop. The horses will not carry us far if we ruin them in the chase. Almárean is older and a Sindar but I find it so very odd that he is able to push this so deep and so completely into stillness; Legolas would be ready to tear down the very heavens by now if their positions were reversed. I realise again the difference between the elves and I know not how they have existed so peaceably as one race.

"I did not like Idhren when first we met," Legolas tells me. It is unexpected and surprising and I wait for him to continue. "I was the last child to be born to Mirkwood, there were none my age and I was difficult, or so my father tells me. He speaks of a Silvan tearaway in a palace of Sindarin lords and ladies, and the confinement only made me all the wilder no matter what he tried. Of course I recall no such thing. My _naneth_ understood, and sent me to live with the Silvan folk for a handful of years. Idhren was the only one near to my age. We did not get along at all."

"Of course I was banished with you – I am still vexed with you over that," Almárean says and there is the play of a smile about him now. He is in the past although he is with us in body. "I recall pulling the two of you apart more times than I can count, although I was often scratched raw for it. You were like a wolf cub; a spitting thing that came rarely out of the trees. Civilising a _laegrim _child is like taming the wind."

"Do not listen to him Gimli," Legolas sniffs archly. "Almárean recalls it all wrong. Of course Idhren is friends with all folk in the end, and by the time I was to be returned to the palace I wept for the separation between us. Idhren would climb to my balcony most evenings and we would escape to the woods; I have fond memories of running at night with naught to care for except getting caught."

I smile unbidden. It is a good image; a tiny and fine pair of wild elflings running the woods beneath the stars, whispered councils and secret meetings that fooled not a single living being within the palace. I do not know Thranduil well, but I cannot imagine for a moment that his son escaping every night would pass him by. I catch Almárean's eye and the quirk of mirth about him confirms my suspicions.

"If I had known then that the duties I took on would mean I would never be rid of either of you, I would have been done with it and set to sail then and there."

"We were not so difficult, surely?" Legolas asks with a smile about him.

"You grew into tolerable elves, eventually," Almárean concedes. "But I cannot count the times I carried a filthy sleeping prince to his chambers, or a tiny _laegrim_ hellion back to his _talan_. My warrior training did not prepare me for the first years of our acquaintance. Perhaps I should have trained in the stables."

Legolas continues to think on the past and his smile does not fade. For a moment I am envious of the bonds that elves form, I admit it. I cannot think on how many years ago this was but my three elven friends are tied to one another by a long history, and I will never know that length of friendship. They are like a family, as close as any can be without shared blood. I am grateful that they think well enough of me to speak so freely of it.

"If you were as difficult then as you are now, Legolas, then Almárean deserves far more respect than I had ever thought to give him," I comment. I bow to Almárean and the quiet elf receives my bow with one of thanks in return. Legolas snorts.

"Enough of this," he announces. "If you have breath to mock me then we have rested long enough."

He stands to collect the horses and stumbles, righting himself quickly enough and continuing on without comment but the small sense of good mood that we have built these last moments is gone upon the breeze. I look to Almárean who meets my gaze with the same concern; I have never seen Legolas stumble. I know that the elf is hiding things; I know that the Shadow is affecting him even now but he will not speak of it.

We are back upon the horses and gone, and we run the horses more often than we walk them now. The spiders have left a clear trail, or so the elves tell me. I cannot see anything but water swept ground and so I trust their senses: I am told that they move quickly and have not stopped once – we are far behind indeed. The good weather of the morning fades by midday and if the sky is much to go by we will be drenched again soon enough. When it catches us it is no storm but the rain comes just as heavily and it is just as relentless. Legolas is becoming short tempered again as the rain washes away much of the trail that we follow, and it seems that the whispers he hears increase with the darkness. We travel hard and do not stop again, even after the rains come and by evening we are weary. We are in high ground now, the wetness and the poor mood does much to sap our strength… even so I do not doubt that any of us would be willing to stop at all if it were not for the fact that only fools travel in Mirkwood at night.

We are fortunate in that we are close to a series of caves that the elves tell me contains a hidden cache of supplies – the whole of the forest has places like this for just such reason – but they are a rain smeared shadow still, high ahead of us. First we must cross a shale draped cut in the steep hillside, where a small trout river running down the centre of a vast and wide shale screed has become an expanse of swift run off from the high ground. We are on a steep hill, the ground is loose with water and treacherous, and the waters are rising as the damned rain only becomes all the heavier. We should not ford the river upon such an incline but we have travelled hours trying to find a better crossing; we have dismounted to lead the horses across and they slip and squeal, water coloured dark by displaced mud hides the uneven ground beneath it and they are too heavy for the saturated mud on such an incline. I trip and my hands are sliced by stone but I am pulled back to my feet quickly by Almárean.

"We must hurry!" I insist to him over the rush of the water. "I feel the land beneath us shifting; we will be halfway down this mountain in short order if we do not get to land more solid."

He nods quickly and we hurry as best we can but I struggle with Naurwen at the other side; the bank is too steep for her and she is quickly mud coated and blowing, slipping and sliding in the thick stuff. Veren is a miserable and filthy thing upon the bank now, Almárean helps me but I hear a squeal and I look over to see where Legolas struggles with Roch. His usually implacable horse is afraid, and his progress across the wide screed is not anywhere near what I had thought; he stands knee deep in water – has it risen so quickly? – whispering urgently to her. She is blowing and her eyes are white rimmed and fearful, she knows that the ground is too unstable, she knows that she stands on the last section of solid earth. Before her the riverbed dips and tangles into tight creases and loose shale upon mud, the water is too fast.

"Legolas do not come!" I call to him. "Trust her, I hear it too. Cross elsewhere!"

The river is a hushing roar but I know that he hears me. He raises one hand in acknowledgement and it is with one final, heaving leap that Naurwen makes the top of the incline to solid ground. She is all thick mud and blowing flanks, and as she joins Veren the two nuzzle one another out of comfort but Almárean and I have no time for such things. We stand side by side and watch Legolas as he persuades Roch to move, reassuring her that he will not force her to cross. He will move upstream where the ground is flatter and more stable. I feel Almárean stiffen and I search for what he has seen just as I hear him cry out a warning. A log, dragged free from somewhere far upriver is speeding toward them. It is buried beneath the muddied water and then there again, twisting and catching on the ground so close beneath it but the waters are deep enough to carry it now.

It hits Roch square upon the hindquarters and if she had been struggling to contain her fear before, it is released by the fright of it. She squeals and slips and struggles to remain upon her feet, yanking her head free of Legolas' hold and pulling him off balance. She is down, a mighty thrashing of legs takes her beneath the rushing river and Legolas is under the water with her.

I cry out and make to go after them but Almárean grips my arm and keeps me in place. He is right; the ground is no more stable now than it was a moment ago but his eyes are wild and searching. The water is fast but it is still no deeper than waist height, they are swept only a short way down stream and somehow Legolas still has hold of his horse. He is upon her back now and his weight is insubstantial to a beast as large as Roch – she struggles to her feet and bounds and lurches her way free of the river. She does not stop until the water tugs at her fetlocks only and then she stands, brought to a stop by Legolas' urging voice and soothing hands. She is twitching and shivering in the downpour and favours her near foreleg, but although the distant figure upon her back waves to show they are well, we are on opposite sides of the river.

It is about correct then, that we hear the familiar and hateful scream of the Shadow right at this very moment.

It is not close, indeed if I had not been straining so hard to hear anything Legolas might call to us then I might not have heard it at all but the elves hear, and so do the horses. Veren and Naurwen squeal and start but do not bolt. I look to my friend in fear – he is so far away! – but if I had thought that he might be stricken or stopped in his tracks by the cry of the creature he is not. He gives a shout of encouragement and he has pushed Roch into a run.

The great horse is exhausted and frightened but trusts her rider implicitly. She pulls herself into a run across the riverbank and water sprays about them both, I take no time at all in pulling myself up onto Naurwen's back and I am off after them. Legolas may be many things, but he cannot read the land as I can and as my stout hearted little red horse gives me everything she has left of her, I realise again the speed she has. She is gaining easily upon the larger horse across the river and I push her onward. Legolas has realised what I am about and slows, allowing us to pass and follows me instead. I give Naurwen her head and trust her in what to do… my mind is firmly rooted within the earth now. I quest and feel: through the heavy thundering of hooves upon scattering shale, through the thick and grasping mud I feel. Waters tug and pull, and I seek out the firmest of the riverbed – there, where the river was swiftest and the mud long washed away. There the stone is much better used to the waters, there it shifts less. It is deeper, aye, but still not too deep for a horse so big.

I pull Naurwen up and she heaves and dances into place. I wave greatly and Legolas knows what I do, he has Roch plunging into the water too swiftly for her to realise her fear of it. The mighty creature leaps and crests through the water, her head waving high and her eyes wild but she comes. Almárean is beside me – I do not recall him following – and he calls an encouragement out to the pair.

I hear the shriek of the Shadow again, it is closer now, and in response Legolas lets out a great cry of anger and defiance. With every shriek it is tearing at him, ripping him but he will not be beaten by it, not yet. I cannot think on the focus he must have, to fight this Shadow off from where it attacks him unseen as well as to do as he does now, but I am getting used to the sense of underestimating my elf.

Legolas dismounts only to let Roch climb the riverbank. It is steep enough for him to have been unseated as she heaves and slogs and pulls herself up onto solid ground, his own climb up the bank is far more graceful, and the relief I feel once they are both stood with us is short lived indeed. Roch is in poor state and Legolas himself looks ready to drop but the look in his eyes is as hard and unyielding as ice, he is back upon her and pushing her into whatever speed he might coax. We will not be safe until we reach the caves and can build a fire.

I do not think I have ever considered the flight of a horse as slow as I count it now. The hill is steep and the horses are tired and afraid, the rain hammers at us and it seems to take an age to reach the caves. Twice, three times we hear the Shadow again and it is as though we are being mocked; it is travelling alongside us, calling from our left, then from behind us, then our right. I cannot look to Legolas, I know only that he is there and if I see the agony I know to be on his face I know I will not be able to go any further. It is all I can do to stop myself from stopping here and now and facing the demon just as I am but it is folly; no weapon I wield is enough right now. What we need is there, in the dry safety of the cave.

When we reach our haven I find it shallow and low but it is dry and safe. We are fast about it; I locate the dry tinder and am building a fire before Almárean even has time to coax the horses inside. He soothes them and removes their tack, and is rubbing each one down just as I am persuading the first lick of flame into the pit. Legolas has dropped and has not moved, but it is not until the fire goes well enough to be left unaided that I turn to him.

I help him off with his cloak and his bracers, his bow and his quiver now greatly depleted of arrows since his dunk in the water, and he is pliant as a child. His jerkin comes off too and then his boots and all are laid out to dry. He sits curled tightly upon himself in only his breeches and light undershirt but I know I need not fear for him catching a chill. I set out whatever clothing I can spare just as Almárean does and there is another shriek out there in the darkness beyond the fire. It is angry now and Legolas clenches his eyes tightly shut. A muscle in his jaw dances and quivers with the strain of it, and he allows the slightest hiss through his teeth.

"_Rhaich!"_ he spits. "Will it give me just two moments to breathe?"

I cast my gaze about to see what wood we have here and decide that another log upon the fire can be spared. As the flames grow higher and the warmth melts soft against cold skin I see that he relaxes just a fraction; the light drives it out… away from us and out of his heart.

"The horses are spent," Almárean tells us. He knows well enough not to ask questions as foolish as 'are you well?' or 'how do you fare?' but focuses instead on what he can influence. "I brought few oats in case we had need of them and they would do well made into a mash."

"They are little _but_ mash," I comment, emptying the sodden oats into a pan to warm. "Have you brought much to hearten us, or just the horses?"

"Idhren carried most of our food," he replies flatly, and I have no more words on that.

"I will catch my breath and I will go and find us some game," Legolas tell us. The look that Almárean gives him is as dark as the sky outside; it is the first time that I have seen him look thus and the first time I have ever heard him speak to his prince as he does now.

"By Elbereth you will sit there and be still elfling, and I will hear no more foolishness. Wet lembas and dried meat has been enough for us in fairer conditions and you in better health."

"I am tired, not dying Almárean," Legolas sighs, but he has not the fight for it.

"We can hunt in the morning," I tell him. "You will sit and rest now, and you can be assured my friend that I will sit upon you all of the night through if I must."

Legolas rolls his eyes but settles down, propped nearly upright against stone. Almárean sits shoulder to shoulder with him and Legolas allows it. We are in a cave and this has not escaped my notice; it is sign of his discomfort indeed that his confinement is the least of his worries. It is not long before his eyes glaze and he is lost to elven dreams, and I am relieved.

"Perhaps he does not care for wet lembas," I comment on Legolas' uneaten food. Almárean says nothing on it but his mouth is a tight line.

I spend an unpleasant night half asleep and half awake. I am weary and my body needs the rest but my mind is alert; my dreams when I do sleep are frightening and difficult to shake – I am often unable to tell between the two. Almárean has told me that this is the after effect of the spider venom and I am to expect this, but it is disconcerting. I dream of being a child, lost in the endless caverns of the lonely mountains. I dream of darkness chasing me on skittering legs. I dream of fire and I am disoriented, and when I awaken I do not know what is memory, what is dream and what is reality. As my dreams fade I find I have woken in the hours before dawn, and reality is harsh and cold and damp.

Legolas is awake, and I do not know how long he has rested and how long he has sat at watch. He is on the brink of the firelight and he sits like he is lost, staring longingly at a dark and shrouded sky. I see his eyes and they are as iron; cold and hard and impossible to read set in a face of set marble. Almárean joins him and I hear their conversation although I would do anything to be asleep right now. I do not wish to hear their words. They sit side by side, completely at ease with each other and they are silent for a long time before Legolas speaks.

"We have seen much my friend," he murmurs. "We have seen the darkness take our forest, watched these leaves fade and fall. We have seen the fens and meadows of our youth wither and become foul. We have fought and fought and lost so many, but never have I felt the darkness in my heart as I do now. My fëa weakens with it."

"You will endure it," Almárean tells him. "You will endure it as we have ever endured."

Almárean does not speak now as a friend to a friend, nor as a subject to his prince or even an archer to his captain. He speaks now as one who has been protector and advisor through all of his days. He has all but raised Legolas.

"I miss Idhren," Legolas sighs. "I am sorry that I have led you to this Almárean, I am sorry for the grief you must feel."

"We feel the same grief. Do not apologise for what you have not wrought, it is empty and I will not hear it. Guard your words Legolas, you must not let Gimli hear you speak thus; he is worried for you and I think well enough of him not to see him grieved so. If you cannot be healed of this darkness then you know just as I do that you must sail."

"I swore I would not! I cannot leave Estel and I wish nothing more than to travel with Gimli for long years yet. There is much that remains here for me."

"You may not have a choice Legolas; what we wish so often differs to the truth of things and only children think differently."

The elf sighs but it is not a wistful sound, it is frustrated and annoyed. He knows this just as well as Almárean does and I feel sick with it: If my friend sails, what then? I cannot go with him to the Undying Lands; he will walk where I cannot follow and when I think of my days ahead without his aggravating, unbearably strange presence at my side I feel something in my heart tighten so that I cannot breathe. I will return to my kin and I will live as a dwarf just as I have lived all of my days but I am changed, I know that well enough. I have spent so long learning the world anew that I cannot go back to that life, I am ruined for it. It is no longer enough. I am unaccountably angry with the paths that have brought me to become this: a dwarf who has become so entwined with a race whose time is all but passed. It is wasteful and it is unkind.

"Ai but I could weep for the time we have lost Almárean," Legolas grits, throwing a small stone out into the night. "All of the years wasted. I see the world so differently now, just in the span of a mortal lifetime and now it is almost too late to do aught about it."

"Our time was not squandered. We pass this world into their safekeeping and you will remember all of your days here as we walk a different shore; do not waste this time harbouring regrets for what you cannot change."

They are silent again awhile, and when Legolas speaks again it is with a voice as hard as the stone upon which I lie.

"Nay," he refuses it. "I do not accept this, I _will_ not. When we find Idhren we will end this Shadow and I will be free of it, we will return home with our friend and I will continue on with Gimli as I swore. I have much to make up to him – he must regret ever meeting me for what I have put him through these last months, and I must make amends. I will not sail, not for a long time yet."

Almárean sighs but is resigned to it. He is perhaps used to Legolas' stubborn nature and his sometimes worrying refusal to listen to reason but my heart sings with it. I am struck by a moment of guilt and I chide myself for ever doubting him; if any creature can fight off the darkness simply by willing it to happen then it is my elf.

I drift off then with a lighter heart, dozing for a beat at a time. Legolas is throwing stones out into the dark again and they clatter out there: sharp retorts that differ each in pitch. I can read the path of the stones, I know the sound well enough to know what each one hits: whether it is water or mud, grass or moss, granite or basalt. I am jolted awake with a surge of fear at the sound of a large stone, forcibly propelled, thrown back out of the darkness at us. It hits the far wall with a resounding crack and not one of us finds a moments rest for the rest of the night. Legolas throws no more stones.

TBC

* * *

**Poor chaps, it just isn't their week is it? I hope you've had time to forgive me for what I've done with Idhren, the guys are well on their way now to get him back and hopefully Legolas can keep fighting it off that long. **

**Next chapter should be up about midweek as usual, and I'd really appreciate it if you could drop a quick review. Hope you enjoyed it**

**MyselfOnly**


	8. Chapter 8

We are a glum and silent trio when the sun finally rises high enough to leave the safety of the cave. I fetch sodden wood to hide for the next traveller as Legolas does as promised and finds us food – we have a small fish each and we eat this together with some dried fruit from our supplies. Almárean spends much time fussing over the horses and they seem happier beneath his skilled ministrations, but we are each miserable to see that it rains still. It is not as relentless as it was yesterday but neither does it show signs of an end, and we are resigned to another soaking day in the saddle.

I see Legolas stood out there just as we are ready to leave. Almárean is inspecting the clear and obvious signs that we have spent the night with a whole host of spiders milling about outside but I will not think on that; I am weary of the feeling of crawling skin, of dread and discomfort in my heart. I will not think on it in any way other than to take heart that at least we now have a fresh trail to follow, and I stand with my hands on my hips. I will take no more of this moping.

"Legolas what see you?" I ask him. I hear my tone and I did not mean it to sound so abrupt, but if there is any person upon Arda that understands me well enough to forgive it then it is he. He looks at me in surprise, and I repeat the question.

"What I see?" he asks. He gestures in a movement a shadow of his usual grace to the shale and the scrubby brush, the roaring river a smudge in the distance and the drab, hazy forest all about us. "I see rain and I see stone and I see trees. Do you see something different?"

"Nay," I wave off as if his question is foolish. "Of course you know that is all I see, but what is before me is all that I ever see. It is not what _you_ see. Look again but do not see what your darkness dimmed eyes see, tell me what _Legolas_ sees."

He is surprised again but I feel a thrill of gladness that he is thinking on it. He looks again about him with a pinch of confusion at his eyes and Ai, when he smiles! I do not react but stand with my hands about my hips, a scowl about my brow and I wait. I wait for what feels like an age but I know that he fights still; his spirit is weary but it is still within him, and he need only be reminded of who he is.

"I see it," he breathes in relief, and I need no more. I do not know what he sees; he can pick out leaves upon a branch in a tree I can barely focus upon but he also sees in Song, he sees beauty where I can imagine none. The look he gives me is heartbreaking in gratitude but I harrumph and blow air out through my beard and turn away.

"Mind it well Legolas, none should have to remind you how to see. Even elves are born with the ability to use their eyes."

I sneak a glance at him as I fuss needlessly at Naurwen's traces and I am gladdened – by Eru am I gladdened – to see him turn his face to the rain with the very real ghost of his usual smile. I glance also at Almárean who is watching his prince as though half of a mountain has been removed from his shoulders, and it feels to me like a victory.

When we ride on there is a change in the mood. I know that Legolas is given respite whilst the sun rides high but he is almost himself again; his eyes are pinched and he is wan and shaky but he is trying, Mahal bless his elven heart he is trying to be more himself. He does it for me, he does it for Almárean but I care not for whom he does it – he is fighting to keep himself, and he begins to hum beneath his breath as he rides before us.

His song is unusual; I often find that his songs haunt me and make me yearn for a time in which I never lived, but this one is simple and almost innocent. I understand few words – it is a _laegrim _dialect – but what I do hear is childlike in its simplicity. I see Almárean give a wistful look to him and I give one of my own; one of questioning.

"It is a song that he and Idhren made up as elflings," he tells me. "In another life Idhren would have made quite the bard. It is rather rude in places though."

At this I laugh. I imagine our carefree and jovial friend, and I can see it well. Almárean is caught by my laughter and his own smile grows into something more its usual self.

"Tell me Gimli," he bids. "What of dwarvish children? Are they as impossible?"

"Nay, I imagine not," I shake my head. "Dwarves are far more sensible than elves as all people of sound mind will tell you, and as children we are no different. But we are at one point or another children, this cannot be avoided. I am told that I was an endless distraction to my parents although I remember it much differently. To hear them speak of it I was often lost, although I would say that I was exploring. My father says that I questioned endlessly out of turn but I recall only curiosity, and when I am told that I was never where I should have been I say that there was always something far more interesting happening elsewhere."

"Then in truth, dwarvish children are exactly like those of the Eldar," Almárean fixes me with exasperated eyes and indicates our companion. "You sound just as he did. _'But Almárean,' _he would say, _'hear you not the trees? They speak of things more interesting than Mannish histories.' _Or perhaps: _'but Almárean, how might I know where this path leads should I simply hear of it?' _I know not how he and Idhren survived to be fully grown."

"And of course you were a far more sensible and obedient child," I confirm with a wry look.

"Sindarin children are exactly as you say; steady of temperament and sound of judgement," he tells me, and I know that there is not an ounce of truth in it. He is amused but sobers after a while.

"I was fortunate," he speaks. "After the shadow of Dol Guldur fell upon Lasgalen, after we were forced to move north to the mountains and the spiders came there was little time in which to be a child. Legolas was grown by then but he was still too young to become a warrior, and Idhren should never have known the feel of a longbow. The _laegrim_ were never meant to bear arms."

"Were any of us meant to?" I ask, and I am stricken by a remembrance: a conversation with an entirely different elf beside a fall of water, where our intended paths were discussed. I wish I had not been so dismissive at the time.

Midday comes and still the weather is not improved any, but we are in softer lands again. We struggle through a section of forest that still bears much sign of the blight that affected these lands for so long: the trees are hunched and twisted and the undergrowth is naught but a choking of moss and weed. It covers fallen bough and tree but even I can see signs of its recovery. New growth peers out from the tangle, birds fly about and the hunched trees bud and bloom. It is extremely green here, and although it is tangled and I feel a hint of claustrophobia within these quiet trees, we walk the horses and duck and fight through it, and we are not saddened. Almárean tells me that once no elf would walk through here, that once it was all about spider webs and near impossible to travel safely. I see no sign of web here now.

We come out of the tangle and are upon a heath. Here again we cannot run the horses for long as this land is potholed and made treacherous by countless generations of industrious rabbits, but before we can become overly frustrated by our slow pace the heath becomes a plain that then becomes studded with great trees but little undergrowth. We run for the rest of the afternoon, slowing to a canter, then a walk, then a gallop again. We make up for the time we have lost and it is good to feel speed. The rain is driven into my face and takes my breath away, the blurring scenery and need for focus keeps my mind from straying into darkness and we three move as ghosts beneath a low and leaden sky.

By the time the sun begins to set we are all breathless and weary. I am led to a stand of ancient giants, and Almárean and Legolas look to me with an expression of apology.

"Why do we stand here?" I ask them suspiciously. "You said that we were to camp, I see nowhere suitable here."

Legolas dismounts and hides a laugh with an unconvincing cough as Almárean points upward. I follow his gaze. A _talan_ sits up in the canopy; it is covered and wide and I am sure it is counted as extremely comfortable if you are part bird as they are.

"Nay," I shake my head quite seriously. "I will not sleep in a tree; that is for birds and elves. How would I even reach such a place?"

"We would not have led you here to leave you to sleep on the floor Gimli," Legolas tells me, and curse him but if he isn't laughing at me behind his eyes. He has Roch's bridle and his pack tied about him to leave his hands free. Roch is released to her own devices this night and she shakes herself, and begins to quest about her, paying no mind at all to what her insane rider is doing. Almárean dismounts and begins to strip off Veren's burdens as well, and I find myself doing the same although I do not know what they have in mind.

My stomach roils and protests at what I am about to be put through, and I watch Legolas as he stands looking up into the tree; assessing and readying himself like a cat. When he finally leaps he catches the lowest branch – perhaps twice the height of a man – and is off, climbing as though it is the most natural thing in the world to him. I watch with barely a breath, and some look of horror must be upon my face as Almárean laughs and claps me about the shoulder.

"He has been climbing trees a long time Gimli, he will come to no harm in this."

"It is not his safety that I worry for, it is mine," I reply, with only a hint of untruth to it. "Am I expected to do as he has just done? You will be waiting a long time for it; I shall not survive what I have just to meet my end falling out of a tree."

A rope ladder falls, narrowly missing me and a voice calls out from above. This is how I am to ascend and I groan mightily; even I cannot think of an excuse not to climb now, and I set to it with a constant stream of language that would have my mother ashamed of me.

Almárean laughs lightly to himself as he works to secure Naurwen's saddle, my axe and the rest of our packs to the bottom of the ladder and then he, like Legolas, is climbing. By the time I reach them, blowing and huffing and shaky of leg they are both readying the _talan_ for the night. We will have no fire – even I know it is foolish to set a fire upon a wooden platform in a tree – but the _talan_ has a sturdy roof and is a good vantage point indeed. I peer nervously over the edge as Legolas pulls up the ladder. It is a well constructed shelter: large enough to hold many elves, dry and well defensible even in a forest blighted with spiders. Even so, we are very high up.

"Do not let me fall out of this tree Legolas," I grumble to him. "Swear it."

"Remain back from the edge and you will not fall," he murmurs back at me quietly, but the grace he has recovered today is starting to leave him as the sun fades. He pauses in what he does to press his fist against his chest and wavers, and I am there to set him down gently before he trips. For once he does not argue or fight me and this is worrying all of itself; he leans back against the bole of the tree and his colour is poor, his breath shallow. Almárean is there to set his hand against the prince's brow lightly, and Legolas looks to him with a brief smile that he does not mean. I can see the frustration in him – it has been a long time indeed since he has been so betrayed by his own strength.

"It is coming," he tells us.

"It comes every night," Almárean dismisses grimly. "You are cold, take this."

He passes Legolas his cloak from his packs, helps him on with it and then sits but I cannot – I am weary but afire with energy that I cannot put to any use. I am to the edge and back, I look up into the canopy watching for a glint of red eyes and my ears strain for sound other than the patter of rain upon leaf.

"Gimli sit, _saes mellon nin_," Legolas entreats. "No good will come from you wearing a hole through the floor."

I know that it is probably not possible but the thought if it makes my stomach lurch again, and so I sit as far back from the edge of the _talan_ as I can. I tuck Legolas' cloak tighter about him and pretend not to see him rolling his eyes at me.

"Surely it has led us far enough away now," I grumble. "Does it mean us to chase it to Rhûn?"

"We have turned south again," Almárean shakes his head. We have been travelling so long without the sun that I have missed the change in direction, and even I know that southern Mirkwood is not the best place to be chasing a Shadow. We are too close to a new moon and I feel that my point still stands. How far does it seek to lead us?

"It has stopped raining," Legolas tells us softly and I realise he is right: I hear wetness dripping from leaf to leaf and somewhere it runs and trickles in the darkness, but it does not rain. It is strange now for it to be so silent. The air is cool and damp and heavy with the scent of wet loam, and I look to the sky where I see the barest glint of silver between the heavily scudding clouds. We are silent for a while then and I realise that whilst I can see Almárean by his pale glow, Legolas is as dark as the forest about us. I do not speak on it but my throat tightens for what it means.

There is a shriek in the darkness.

It is far away but it is there, always is it there, and I feel my friend freeze. Every muscle and nerve and sinew in him is bound tight as a bowstring, and I hear his breath arrest and choke within him. He tries to hide it, he does all he can not to show what the Shadow does to him but I know. I take one of his icy cold hands and I could cry out for the grip he has upon me in a second; I forget the strength of his hands at times. He releases his breath and he shudders with it.

"Look, my friend," I point. His eyes follow and settle upon the night sky, and I feel him relax a hair's breadth as he sees the stars. Their light is faint but the elves see them differently, and if this light helps to keep the Shadow out and provide him with some comfort then I will take comfort in it too.

"Of what does this tree speak?" I ask. I will distract him if it means I talk myself hoarse but I have grown skilled at distracting my elf; I do not even hide it in my tone, I sound like a school master running a child through his letters but he has not heard me. His eyes are fixed on the stars and he lies almost boneless, his breath so shallow and still. I nudge him with my foot.

I am given a glare of such indignation that I can barely restrain the laughter - it breaks the heavy mood in a moment. I do not think that Legolas has been poked his entire adult life, princes do not generally find themselves _poked_ but the offence gives him a glimmer of fire and he settles back against the bark of the tree again with the faintest grumble. This time his eyes rest upon the stars only lightly; they are his lifeline but he does not drown any longer. He reaches back and speaks with the tree awhile. Now he is moored against the storm.

If Galadriel meant for me to keep his eyes and ears open to the stars and the Song then I will do it, and I do not doubt myself any longer. I know how to do this.

"This one is excitable," Almárean complains. "I shall get little sleep with it talking on the way it does; ever do I spend a wakeful night when we sleep here."

"The Sindar do not know to listen and not assess every word," Legolas chides, Almárean snorts.

"And a Silvan is more than adept at not hearing a single word said to him."

"You hear me wrong," Legolas waves away, "I hear the trees always, I hear the Song always, I cannot shut it out. This tree has not stopped telling us of the family of mice within its roots for one moment since we got here, but it is possible to hear it without letting it become a distraction."

"I will take no lessons from you on the avoidance of distraction," Almárean huffs. "Never have I known one so constantly wrapped up in the Song; a bird sings a league away and you are wordless for half a morning."

"I said it was possible," Legolas replies archly. "I did not say that it was easy or enjoyable."

"Then perhaps you should listen," I suggest. "You are in need of much distraction right now."

"He is right," Almárean comes to my rescue before Legolas has chance to argue with me. "You will not sleep except for moments at a time and I cannot force you to eat, but in this you will do as you are told. You will be much better for it."

For a time we think ourselves victorious. The elf relents and sinks back until he is as comfortable as he can be. He lies where he can see the stars and where his trailing fingers can brush against the tree, and he lets his eyes close. I know that he listens, I know because after a while there is the faintest luminous colour to his skin again as he reacquaints himself with his wood but even as Almárean and I allow ourselves a breath of rest the moment is gone.

From the ground there is a cry, but it is not the cry of the Shadow. We are all about darkness now but there is still the faintest of light to see by; my eyes are not as sharp as that of an elf but dwarves do well in the darkness. There is a cry and we look to the forest floor, and there stands a child. She has perhaps ten summers to her and is a mannish child, her dress is torn and she has ribbons in her dark hair. She is weeping, afraid. It is a lie.

"The child from the camp," Almárean gives quiet voice to what we all know. "There is no life in her; she is a shell only."

"It is becoming cunning," I speak lowly. "It plans and seeks to draw us out; the ragged woman knew only madness and violence."

"It takes a part of all that it touches," Legolas tells us tiredly. "It has known the ragged woman, the family from the camp… it has touched my mind also. It is learning our weaknesses."

"There is a comforting thought," I sigh and sit back again. If I must listen to her weeping all the night through then I need not watch her – I will allow only one sense to be assailed by the horror of it. All three of us are away from the edge and ignoring it as best we can; Almárean and I try to speak to one another and Legolas is back in his meditations but when the child falls silent we are distracted again by it. Almárean moves to the edge once more and the cold look upon his face draws me over as well. The child has stopped weeping, the Shadow has realised that we will not be drawn out and the pretence is dropped. The child stands at the foot of the tree, she is surrounded by the shifting suggestion of spiders and she stares up at us unblinking with a clouded, lifeless gaze.

"I think perhaps I liked the weeping better," I admit. "Those are eyes I will not forget in a while."

"She will not send her spiders up," Legolas tells us. "She knows that the _talan_ is too easy to defend and does not wish to lose any more of them in folly."

"You are supposed to be listening to the Song," I tell him. "Not the Shadow."

"I am given little choice!" he snarls back at me. "You think it so easy?"

For a moment I am shocked by the vicious tone; he is often annoyed but never so venomous and I am unsure as to who has just spoken – whether it was truly Legolas. There is only a moment to think on it, he is soon climbing to his feet and pauses only a moment to catch his breath. His head is bowed and shadowed by long hair, his breath harsh in the stillness.

"Legolas?" Almárean asks fearfully. We both sense it; something is wrong.

The elf comes to me then; he walks the short distance across the _talan_ and lays his hands upon me, and I am stricken then in a way that smites my mind and my heart and my soul all at once.

I am on fire, I am dying.

I hear my name called out as I hear my own voice ripped from me in a great cry. I am aware of a fight, of a struggle beyond the screaming white walls of what besets me, and although a part of me understands what happens I cannot think on it. The Shadow has no link to me; it does not already have its claws within my soul so it needs this contact to attack me the way that it attacks Legolas. I feel it scrabbling, worming into my heart and it hurts, sweet Mahal it hurts and I did not realise.

It is a cold ache that wraps about everything that I am; I am choked and blinded and every nerve ending sings with the thrill of it. I can hear the Shadow – I know its mind and I know how very much it hates me. It burns with it, it feeds upon it. For Legolas it feels avarice; he shines to the Shadow just as he shines to us all and it wants him… oh how it wants him. It wants to take him for its own, wants to nestle inside of him and _be_ him and extinguish his fire knowing that it hurts me in doing so. I had no idea how this might feel. If he is walking and fighting through even a moment of this then my heart breaks for what he endures.

_Legolas, my friend. I did not realise._

I am upon the ground then; it is gone and I am me again and the pain recedes, but the ghost of it remains. I look over to where Almárean tends to Legolas with such a look of panic upon his face – he looks ready to fly apart at any moment. Legolas is wrapped about himself, a thin keening strangled from him and I see what has been done. Almárean has been unable to separate us, unable to remove the grip his prince had upon me and out of desperation he has gone for Legolas' weakness: he has twisted at his wounded hands and Legolas is a ball of quivering pain… but he is himself again. Almárean goes to touch him, to see to his hurt but Legolas trips and falls and drags himself away and out of reach - he will not be touched nor comforted. He is crouched by the edge of the _talan_ against the tree and he looks to me in misery.

'_I am sorry,' _he speaks without a word. '_Can you forgive me?'_

It is not his fault. None of this is his fault. I cannot make him see this. This is the first time that his strength has wavered and I know now against what he fights, I know what he endures and how do I make him see that I blame him not a moment for any of this?

"We shall have stern words," I tell him, breathing heavily. "Stern words indeed about your inability to concentrate upon something as simple as nothing. But first I am going to sleep, and you are going to let Almárean see to your hands and apologise to him – this must be the most miserable time of his life."

And I sleep the dreamless slumber of the truly worn.

TBC

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**OK so I'm actually starting to feel a bit bad for everything I'm putting them through... but only a bit. **

**Apologies to those in my time zone - this was supposed to be posted much earlier in the day but RL stuff came first. I have just come back from vising my brand new nephew, who arrived a little bit earlier than expected. He's very tiny, and the poor thing looks just like my little brother but all in all, absolutely perfect.**

**Next chapter will be making an appearance Friday or Saturday, as usual, and you're all in for a bit of a surprise. Nice or nasty, you'll have to tune in. **

**Reviews are always sought after - to those of you who always take a moment to give a word or two, thank you as always. You guys rule. To those who don't - you're breaking my heart! Say hi, it'll make my day.**

**Have a great day, and I hope you enjoyed**

**MyselfOnly**


	9. Chapter 9

I have slept late, I know it. The sun is warm upon my face for the first time in days but although I should feel joyful I am worn. My body is aching and sore, and my head aches as though I have spent days upon the ale but I groan and roll upright, then look about me nevertheless. Almárean is not to be found and Legolas sits as far from me as he can; he is wound tightly enough to snap, his skin is translucent and I see his hands still cradled close to him. I move to stand but his eyes flash a warning: '_do not approach!' _they cry and I listen, settling back again. I will not back him into a corner; it is a long way to fall.

"What we shared last night," I ask him. "That is how it feels to you?"

He is still for a moment before he nods; it is a slight movement and I echo it.

"Think you that Idhren would want you to endure that for him?"

Legolas' face turns cold now. I know that it is not true anger that he feels at all but rather frustration: he is not in control and he is hurting, he is very much a cornered creature right now.

"Is it your decision to make?" he asks me, and his tone is harsh and exhausted. "How much do I endure for a friend's life? How much is enough? How much for yours, tell me? I am able to fight this Gimli; I will not allow what happened last night to occur again, I will not let the last days that I have fought through go to naught."

"The longer you fight it, the longer it will lead us upon this chase," I tell him and I am disturbed to find that I understand it all the better now as well. "It seeks to wear you down and through all of the days in which it seeks to do so, whatever time Idhren has to him runs shorter."

"Do you say that I am to give in?"

"Nay, I say that you are too blinded by what you endure to see it: it will run and we will chase until you drop and can fight no longer. It will have an immortal host that it can live in comfortably for a long time… and what then? What when it is not confined to spiders and crows and dead things that can carry it only short distances? Could it leave Mirkwood? I think perhaps it could."

"What are you saying Gimli?" Legolas asks wearily, closing his eyes.

"I am saying that a stand must be made and some thought must go in to what we do. We burned it and buried it last time and it was not enough, but it was trapped in the mountain. It can be buried deeply enough to keep it so, we must simply find out how."

"I can find you a mountain if you can persuade it to swallow this thing," Legolas tells me, and it is not a bad thought. I am silent, thinking, and I miss Almárean's return. He has food that Legolas eyes bitterly and cannot eat, water that we make him drink, and then we make the laborious descent back to the earth. I am still silent in thought and so I am treated to the full, uninterrupted heat of Legolas' ire at being forced to climb from a tree using a ladder like the _edain_. In truth the words he uses are worse and I am glad that much of it is in a _laegrim_ dialect but Almárean ignores every word of it, and even hums to himself to make it quite clear that he is doing so.

When we are upon the ground Legolas is gone. I do not know how he gets about with his hands in the condition that they are but I am too deep in thought to wonder on it long; he needs this time away from us, and we call the horses and make preparations without him. When we leave, Roch follows riderless.

We set the horses to a canter all the morning through and the trees remain like this; wide spaced and airy enough not to worry about speed. I am deep in thought and Almárean concentrates on the trail, and so we are both occupied enough not to worry overly about either of our missing companions. It is not until we pause late in the afternoon that I ask Almárean a question. He is still atop Veren, walking him slowly until we reach a small stand of water. The trees here are lower, smaller and friendly and the recent rain and the warmth of the weather have made it lush and verdant. In any other circumstances I might call this a pleasant place.

"Is there a large cut of rock near?" I ask him. "I feel it but it is not clear, there is an echo within the stone that confuses the Song, and if Mahal has any kindness it is just what we seek. Of course, Orodruin itself would be better suited but I have no wish to walk to Mordor twice in my lifetime."

"We crossed the Forest Road days ago, the mountains are far behind us," he replies. "There are only the shallow caves we stayed within two nights ago, and no cut in the rock."

"Not so," Legolas speaks and I jolt with fright. He has come upon us silently and sits low in a tree enshrouded by ivy and rhododendron, and his eyes burn feverishly out of a wan and exhausted face. "There is a ravine; it is only a few feet across but it is very deep. It is grown over and choked with briar but it was not always so, I remember it."

"I had forgotten," Almárean recalls it now. "Perhaps half a day south; I lost a good knife to that ravine."

"You nearly lost more than that."

"How far say you until we are found by our friends? And how far is Idhren?"

"We are pursued," Legolas confirms. He has looked for them today, those that come for us. I know that he has done this just as he knows what I am planning: he knows me, he knows what I speak of - what might confuse my Song and there is a flicker of hope stirring within him. His eyes are fixed upon mine and I do not quail beneath the weight of them, we are joined in this. "They had a worse time crossing the river than we did and our trail has been much erased by the rain, but were we to stand still a day and a night we would be found. Idhren is ever moments ahead of us."

"The Shadow is never far," Almárean confirms. "The spiders are pained to be travelling in the day and it does not wish to stray far from us, I have sensed him at times. It is painful indeed to know him to be so near and yet not know how he fares."

"Think you that if we lead, it will follow?" Legolas asks.

"Aye, I do." I nod. "I think it wants you badly enough, and it wishes me dead enough that if we were to take lead now it would trail us."

"Would it not be suspicious?" Almárean asks. He does not yet understand what we plan – I will explain it better once we have time – but he trusts us. "It is able to reason and think now, and may wonder at what we do if we were to take the lead of a sudden."

"We head south already," Legolas shrugs. "A deviation from the trail can be mistaken for weariness. I am weary, are you not? Feel you your eyes begin to blur and tire?"

"Suddenly more so than I had," Almárean reflects Legolas' half smile with one of his own.

"We must slow our pace," I speak. "It pains me as it pains you, but we must be caught up with and we must not come to the ravine at night. Can an injury to a horse be feigned to explain stopping so early in the day?"

"I can provide one that would not be much feigned," Legolas mutters and holds out one hand. Almárean hisses at the sight and dismounts to begin wrapping his prince's hands again; they are swollen and pained looking although I do not think they are damaged seriously.

"Why do you insist upon running through the trees when they are like this?" Almárean demands. "Foolish child, have you no care for yourself?"

"So speaks the elf that broke them anew!" Legolas snaps back. Neither of them means their anger; Almárean feels guilt at causing the injury and Legolas is hurting and frustrated. He is still cold eyed and angry but he attempts to explain it: "This is a pain I understand; it is no mysterious blight in my heart nor a rending at my soul but it is clear and clean, and I can focus on it."

"You will be focussing much harder when you are trying to get about on bloodied stumps," Almárean mutters to himself, but I believe that he understands. He finishes off the bindings with much more force than perhaps is necessary and Legolas winces but is silent.

"If you two are finished biting at one another then I believe this is as good a place as any to stop," I speak.

"Not right here," Legolas is free of the tree and the undergrowth with a jump that for a moment reminds me of the grace still within him. "It will be nothing but biting things here tonight, and we cannot see clearly about us – there is a clearing just here," and he is leading us again. The horses are away the moment they are released and I watch them go then turn my attention to the elf. I watch Legolas breathing deeply in the afternoon sunlight; he does not know that I watch him so closely and there is an unguarded moment that I make use of whilst Almárean hunts for more robust fare for our meal.

Sunlight shines through the trees in dancing shafts and we alternate between golden light and warm shadow. Motes of dust and flower dander sail past the columns of sun, and the birdsong echoes through the trees. All is green and thick with deep grass here, and I am surrounded by a shivering carpet of pale yellow flowers that perfume the air. Legolas' skin glows golden as the sun lights him, I can see the pink of blood in the delicate points of his ears and he seems so fragile to me right now. His heart is great, so very great but his body can be broken. He stands as he ever has beneath spreading bough and leaves of green, and he turns his palms up to feel the cleansing light upon his damaged hands. He feels warmth again and looks up to me and smiles. I feel my throat tighten and I speak to him very quietly, knowing that he can hear my voice from where he is.

"Do not remain here Legolas," I bid. "I beg it of you. I cannot watch this any longer."

He tilts his head to one side, the palest hint of a saddened frown touching his brow lightly and then gone. He shakes his head and turns from me.

I leave then to cut firewood and I am gone a long while. I wander further than I need to, select my wood and so good does it feel to swing my axe again that I cut entirely too much. I take out my grief and frustration and helplessness upon a large fallen bough that is mostly dry enough to burn; I chop the entire thing into tinder and then I sit upon the ground and fight the urge to weep, waiting for my breathing to lighten again and for my hands to stop shaking. We are too still, my thoughts have time to choke and drown me and I struggle to focus my mind upon what we are here for. Idhren is still missing, I do not know if he even lives. There is a Shadow from the deepest places of the world that wants nothing more than my suffering. My good friend may not be able to fight another night. Our poor Almárean – how difficult it must be for him to feel so powerless to help his friends.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and I quest about with my hands and with my heart until I feel Arda's heartbeat. I let it calm me and my own heart finds its rhythm again but only for a moment. There is a cry in the distance and I know it to be Almárean, I am to my feet and running in moments and I know speed born of pure panic. There was fear in his voice, and I leap branches, duck beneath bough and race through the trees until I find myself come to the clearing. My stomach clenches into an icy knot and I do not understand what I see.

Legolas lies supported by Almárean upon the ground; he twists and his neck strains as he gasps air in great wheezing breaths. His hand grasps at the soil and his eyes are open but they do not see. An angry, pained sob is torn from his clenched teeth and I fall to his side, I do not know what to do!

"It will pass," Almárean speaks, and the calm of his tone is belied by the cracking of his voice. Legolas' body is beginning to fail him.

Almárean strokes golden hair from Legolas' brow and murmurs calming words to him in their tripping, singing language. I see the elf comforting the elfling as it must have been for a great many years but my own limbs are leaden, my mind cannot think on anything to do. It is plain that he can endure no more; if he survives this night I do not know for certain if there will be another.

~{O}~

One thing that has come of this is that Legolas finally sleeps.

He lies curled loosely upon his side, his hands tucked to his chest and a cloak about him. He is propped against our packs before a low fire and his eyes are open and glazed, finally he walks in dreams and if he wakes again before nightfall I cannot promise that I will not club him back into sleep again.

"I am not sure that sleep is the best thing for him," Almárean muses unhappily and I glare at him in outrage. He holds one hand out to placate me. "He is struggling to fight the Shadow when he is awake, how does he protect himself if he sleeps?"

"We have hours until the sun sets. You should get some rest yourself whilst we can; I will watch."

"I mean no disrespect Master Gimli, but the prince is my responsibility. I have failed him quite thoroughly thus far, I will not sleep whilst he has need of me."

Almárean is gone before I have the chance to challenge the validity of what he has said. The trees are not thick enough to hide him completely and I see him – a silent grey figure up in the boughs – and I sigh before I set to preparing our meal. We have birds, we have berries, we have wild garlic and I will poke this down Legolas' throat like a baby bird if I have to but I will make sure he eats today. Even Almárean moping in the treetops will not be able to resist this. I cook, because it is all I can do.

I feel a gaze upon me and I sigh greatly.

"Legolas you must sleep!" I insist.

"If you knew my dreams you would not tell me so," he speaks, and his voice is tired and strained. I look to him and he has not moved, he lies looking at the flames of the fire and he is haunted. "You must swear something to me Gimli."

"I do not wish to hear it," I tell him. I know what is coming.

"It has not harmed you thus far because it wishes any harm to be by my hand. You must not let that happen."

"Legolas please, do not ask this of me..."

"I cannot ask this of Almárean; it was he that shot the arrow that killed my _naneth, _he will not survive it if he is to end the last of Oropher's line. If I lose this fight – "

"No!" I shout, my voice is harsh to my own ears and he closes his eyes. "You must not speak this way. I will not be the one to end Legolas Greenleaf; you will fight and you will endure and we will come through this together but do not do this to me. Do not!"

He takes a great breath and he is disappointed but I do not care. He nods and I turn back to my ministrations, and I swipe angrily at my eye. He sleeps again, unable to fight it and I am furious with him – I know that he has not yet given in, that he seeks only the comfort of knowing that he will not walk all of his days as a Shadow if he loses this fight but how can he ask it of me? It is the greatest trust I have ever been shown, but I am not strong enough… surely he sees that?

I let the birds cook and I know not the passage of time then. My eyes rest on the fire, on the beauty about me but my thoughts are sluggish and dead things. Almárean does not shift in his place in the trees and Legolas sleeps, whether soundly or not I do not know. I cannot look at him; the way elves sleep with their eyes part open looks too much like death to me. It feels as though I am alone for a long time, although it is likely only a few hours. The birds once cooked are removed from the fire but I have no appetite for them any longer, and if Almárean scents that they are ready he does not stir either.

I spend the time going over my plan, worrying over the many opportunities for failure. Too much depends on chance but it is all that we have; I do not know what we might do if this fails but at least we will not be alone any longer… help comes. I quest into the earth again and the Song is confused, distorted as it is only in the presence of one thing. I pray to Mahal that he has guided me well and that my senses, my instinct, my heart are telling me the truth. If I have been set upon this path – a dwarf amongst immortals – solely to hear this one Song then I pray that I am not wrong: much will come to ruin if I fail and I feel the sickness of doubt within me again.

I hear Legolas stirring – I should be thankful that he has slept these short hours – but he comes to full waking with a gasp and struggles upright. I am to his side quickly with soothing tones but he grips my arms like a vice and I grimace. His eyes are wild but it is not fear or horror I see there, it is amazement and I could almost swear that I see hope. Hope, just as I am losing mine. Almárean is there then, he hushes the elf but Legolas is not to be calmed.

"_Avo osto, Legolas, sidh," _Almárean bids but Legolas shakes his head frantically.

"_Im maer," _he insists. "In my dreams, I have seen as it sees! The Shadow touches me even as it is lies dormant, it does not know! We have little time... Almárean, Gimli please you must believe me!"

"What, Legolas?" I place my hands either side of his face and try to focus him, he is all but raving. He fights our hands and tries to rise: he is stronger now but stills as I ask. His eyes when they meet mine are clearer than I have seen them in days.

"Idhren," he says. "I know where he is!"

TBC

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Translations:

"_Avo osto, Legolas, sidh," - do not fear, Legolas, peace_

_"__Im maer," - I am well_

**Firstly, not quite on time but this is actually posted a bit sooner than I expected. I tinkered quite a bit at the last minute so it needed some work.**___  
_

**Secondly, I'm very sorry to announce it but I will no longer be posting as often as I have been. I have had a rather... disappointing level of support from all but a few very dear readers who always take the time to review. My last chapter had three reviews, and considering how hard I work to get two out a week I have decided to slow down a bit. ****I can only assume that it's not appreciated by all of the others that are reading, and so a wait between updates will not mean that I don't have to rush the editing process so much, but perhaps people will appreciate the updates more when they do arrive. **

**I write fanfiction for my own enjoyment, but I certainly don't need to post it. I do that for the knowledge that it's being read and enjoyed so for those of you who don't review, please reconsider. You have no idea what it means to us poor authors. The minute or two it takes for you to drop us a line is appreciated more than you know.**

**That said, you will find that the chapters are going to start getting quite a bit longer soon. From this point onward it's all rather non-stop and after much deliberation I decided to post the monstrosity that is the Final Battle in three (I think) very large chapters. There's another few to go yet, but just getting you ready for it all!**

**Please drop a review, it'd be great to hear from you.**

**MyselfOnly**


	10. Chapter 10

We believe him. How can we not? Legolas is so insistent that he has seen the truth of it - that it was not merely a fevered dream that he has had, and he speaks so insistently and so urgently that we are swept up in it. If he is wrong then we go into needless danger but if he is correct and we do nothing? None of us are willing to risk it.

We have perhaps four hours of daylight left. Legolas insists we are close enough to fetch our friend and still make good time back to our camp to make our stand for the night, but although he is revived I do not know how long for. He has had some sleep and he is filled with the urgency of what he has seen – a balm of hope sitting well upon his soul – but it is not enough to counter these last days. He is exhausted and hurting and does not eat, but I must trust in his strength. It has carried him thus far.

Almárean is afraid. For days he has been able to quell his feelings, to hide them close to him and share them not at all, but now we move to find his friend and they escape him. We all fear it; what we might find and whether we will find him at all. If Idhren can be brought back to us then need we even fight any longer? We only chase to retrieve him... can we wait then for elves less weary and more a match for this? I will not think on it, it is too cruel to tie my heart into knots like this.

We leave our things behind and carry only our weapons: the three of us run lightly to the east through this lovely wood and it is as though these last days have not been. Legolas leads us and his exhaustion is not apparent in his strength of limb and the grace with which he moves. The hope roused in him has given him back what has been taken from him, even if it is temporary, and the sight of it heartens me. I had not realised how much I rely on the sight of him moving so strongly and surely to bolster my own courage until now.

I try not to let myself feel joy. Finding Idhren does not mean that Idhren is well; we may be recovering his body and I must be ready for this, but I can see that the elves know this too and yet their eyes still shine with hope. If they - even after so many hundreds of years of disappointment - can still feel hope like they can, then I should not be actively quelling it within myself. It is hope that I have prayed for, and it is hope I am being given.

We do not run for long. The elves have both said that Idhren has never been far but we are not even a league from where we are camped, and I could burst from the frustration of it.

Legolas has led us to what I eventually make out to be ruins of great age. A small birch grove nestles in what was once likely a hall with stone walls enclosing them, but no roof confines their height. Bramble and briar choke a staircase that spirals up into nothingness and we can make out very little indeed. Statuary is faceless and limbless, crumbling walls trace out the ghosts of rooms and of passageways, and a garden grown into wildness has spread throughout the grounds. The descendants of what was once planted here bloom and flourish and it is beautiful, but there is a pall hanging over this place, even I can sense it.

"They sleep here," Legolas murmurs to us from where we observe unseen. He points to the smallest of cracks where a wall has fallen many long years passed, it has partly obscured an entrance to someplace underground. "All of the puppets of the Shadow sleep there now; it has buried itself deep inside each of them and is hidden underground where the light cannot reach. Idhren is down there too."

"You are sure of this?" I press.

"I was sure this place was here at all was I not?" he bites back. He is getting frustrated by our constant questioning over something he knows so certainly.

"You played here as a child," Almárean dismisses with a faint frown. "It was King Oropher's – you would stay here with him."

"He is down there as surely as I stand here with you now," Legolas insists stubbornly. He will not be persuaded from this.

"You realise why we are concerned," Almárean's frown does not dissipate and I understand how he is torn. We both understand it; that entrance is too narrow for any but a _laegrim _sylph such as he is to get through noiselessly. Our aim is stealth right now; we have the daylight on our side but it is no advantage underground. Almárean is ready to tear his own hair out with anxiety; we are so close, _so very close_ but he must send his prince alone into danger or leave his closest friend behind again.

"It is not your decision Almárean, I am going," Legolas tells him but the harshness of his words is softened with a smile so much like his old self. Legolas takes the weight of decision from his friend. "As your captain I tell you to remain here and wait, and if you will not heed your captain then I speak as your prince. I shall need a bow at my back when I come out. Gimli, I will need your axe at the entrance."

Almárean nods woodenly and his face is cold and blank, but he is gone to the trees to ready himself. I follow the elf as quietly as I am able and we bracket the entrance to the underground lair. I feel exposed as I have never felt before but the sunlight envelops me in a protective mantle. There in the darkness is real danger, out here is safe whilst the sun still shines but I feel the cold coming from down there in the pit. It seeps into my bones and I steady my breathing.

"I cannot think of a worse place for you right now Legolas, we may as well gift you to the Shadow and be done."

"Look," he breathes in reply, and I follow where he points. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness within and I cannot see so far, but past the narrow entrance and over a long and unstable screed of fallen masonry, past a dirt floor and at the very limit of my vision are two figures supine upon the floor. One is un-mistakenly elven. I look to my friend and I cannot persuade him now even if I had the heart for it, he meets my eyes and there is a dance of a smile about him. It is happy… hopeful. I cannot take it from him.

'_Return again,' _my glare instructs.

'_Wait for me,'_ he replies with the most aggravating grin, and he slips through that tiny cut into the darkness like a swallow darting into the eaves of a house.

I watch and I do not think I take a full lung of air the whole time he is down there. My heart thrums so hard it is painful and I am concentrating so hard my ears ring, but I watch. He creeps down the hill of fallen masonry and barely a drift of dust is disturbed by his passing. Any clumsiness that he has shown these last days is gone, swept from him by the need for silence and speed. He moves like a cat, like a ghost and he is upon flat and solid ground in no time.

I hear a shifting of rock and I am sure that my heart bursts right that very moment, but I continue to breathe and do not die. Legolas freezes and becomes as a shadow himself, melting into the wall to look up. I follow his gaze and see a ceiling thick with the motionless army of the Shadow's spiders and I do not know if he has known that they were there this whole time – it is quite likely – but had I known then this would not be happening. I would have fought far more strenuously. My skin is frozen, itching, crawling with horror but it is too late and he is in there now, too far in to turn back. I did not think that my revulsion could reach any further heights until I watch him melt across the dusty ground, now more darkness than light, and I resolve the shape of the second body. It is the dead little girl.

I would turn away then but it has taken this time to train my eyes to the dark, I will not blind them again by turning to the sunlight. Instead I close them for a moment and I try to compose myself. If the elf is not fleeing with horror then I, sat outside, must be much sterner than this. I do happen to wonder for a time why the Shadow is so partial to young girls. Legolas says that the Shadow takes something from each of its hosts – is this a faint echo of the ragged woman and her madness? I know not and neither do I wish to know now that I have thought of it.

I see my friend step over the corpse of the child and creep over to Idhren; the host of the Shadow now lies between him and his escape but Legolas' attention is fully upon his friend now. He does not speak to him but he touches his face, then his brow and rests his hands upon his chest to then still for a time. What he finds spurs him into action and he is lifting Idhren into his arms, but when he sees the child again he freezes in horror – the girl's eyes are now wide open and staring at him, and then she screams.

It is then that we find our second strike of luck since finding Idhren at all. The girl's scream is just that – the scream of a girl. Had it been the Shadow then all would have been lost; Legolas is not strong enough to fight it any longer and he could not have continued, but it is daylight and the dead little girl is not a suitable host. The Shadow cannot come out despite being beneath the ground, but it can call for its beasts. They are spiders only right now, their breath of Shadow is deeply buried but spiders are problem enough on their own.

"Legolas move!" I bellow at him. The need for stealth is fairly spent now and the ceiling begins to mill and chitter and scratch in alarm. They are disturbed and waking but Legolas is moving. He carries Idhren gently but he is tiring; his grace has started to fail him again and he does not dance lightly back up the screed, he trips and stumbles. He shifts Idhren from his arms across his shoulder so that he can free one of his long bladed knives. He swipes at his first attacker – a light sleeper of considerable size – and it ducks back slowly, sluggishly, but there are more coming. I am shouting and cajoling Legolas into movement and I am sure my words are incoherent and desperate… he can move only as quickly as he can, but I am ready to start pulling the stone apart with my hands to make the entrance wider.

Legolas slashes and jabs at the spiders; they are unhappy and confused and they are only dangerous in their size and their number at this time of day, but there are one or two that recover themselves quicker; there is a hint of the predatory spite in them, a shade of quickness. They dart out of the way of his slashing blades and hiss like snakes, and then approach again as he climbs. All the while the child still screams her alarm.

It seems an eternity before Idhren is being pushed within my grasp. Legolas continues to kick and slash at those spiders willing to brave the light but I grab at Idhren's clothing and limbs, and I pull and drag him out of the hole roughly with no thought for the scrapes and bruises I am giving him. Once he is out I spare no time to check him before Legolas is also being pulled to safety. He little needs it, he is already mostly free of the hole by himself but he is still kicking at the spiders, still trying to keep them from him and they are angry now.

Legolas lies gasping in the sunlight for the slightest moment as I pull Idhren up onto my shoulder and prepare for flight, but it is sufficient time for two of the creatures to find bravery enough to emerge from the hole. It is unexpected, and as they spill out into the light Legolas gives a shout of surprise and pushes backward across the ground as fast as he can away from the beasts. He is to his feet in a heartbeat as two arrows fly from the trees and both spiders fall dead, but we do not look back to see if there are any more… we run as though they all chase us.

We do not stop running when we have left the ruins, nor do we slow once we know that Almárean runs with us. I carry Idhren on my shoulder and although he weighs nothing I have as much concentration as I can spare on the weight of him. Does he feel warm or cold? Is he moving at all? I cannot tell and we do not stop to find out, there will be time once we are back at camp by a fire. The journey here was not a long one but the race back is an eternity, and if it is long for me it must be truly endless for the anxious elves.

The camp when we return is just as we left it although the light is much gone by now. There are possibly two hours left to us but two hours is enough; we have food and water and our packs, and I have stacked enough firewood to keep a household going through a winter. We lay Idhren down close to the fire pit and I take a moment to throw in a log or two to bring it back to flame.

Legolas does not approach. It is Almárean who sees to Idhren, but although the elf stands clear he puts on a pot to boil and has herbs ready to steep. I recognise them from one of the few attempts that Aragorn once made in imparting herbcraft upon a dwarf beyond teaching – whilst not an antidote to spider venom I know that this has a restorative quality on the Eldar. He performs his task without thought and his eyes remain on his friends, watching Almárean as he carries out the same tests that I watched Legolas perform in the cave; touching skin and brow and chest. He murmurs beneath his breath as he does this and I do not need to hear his words to know that he prays.

Idhren looks terrible. In truth I would have pronounced him dead but the elves do not believe so, I can see it in their determination. His skin is waxen with no colour in it at all and his eyes are closed, his lips blue. He is bruised and battered and his clothes are covered in webbing, his russet hair tangled and matted. Almárean checks on Legolas' progress as he begins to rub at Idhren's hands. I can wait no longer.

"Does he live?" I demand and Almárean looks up at where I stand, fidgeting and terrified as the two elves work. They have done this before, I have not. Almárean gives me a smile then – a genuine, real smile and it is like the sunrise.

"Aye Gimli," he breathes, "he lives yet. He has much venom in him and is far faded, but we know what must be done. It is not the first time we have brought him back from this."

And so I let them work. In truth I all but fall into sitting upon the ground and remain there, watching, unable to believe that we have done it. We have found him! I had believed ourselves entirely cursed but we have done it and he is alive! We need only wait for our reinforcements and we can let them worry about this Shadow, we need only get Idhren past the venom and Legolas to the next sunrise and we can put this entire ordeal beyond us. I could laugh but I feel that I may choke on it should I try now. Instead I watch the elves.

Legolas is done with one set of herbs; they are mashed into a small mess of pulp and left upon a leaf beside Almárean, and then he goes to a second pouch. I am relieved that we have any medicinal herbs left; none of these are of any use for pain, they were lost in the river and would have been most useful these last days but the elves always keep upon them medicines for spider venom. I believe they will for many years yet. This stuff he brews into a tea but he brews possibly enough for an army and I smell it upon the air, it is a foul and noxious stuff. Legolas covers his sensitive nose and coughs and swears beneath his breath, but it is set aside off the heat to cool and infuse in its own time.

In the hours before the sun sets Idhren has the pulp spread about his nose until he begins to choke and cough and wheeze breath into him, and it is a joyous sound. I cannot stop myself from laughing this time and Legolas passes me a smile as he helps Almárean to sit Idhren up. He is barely conscious, reeling and choking but he is awake of a sort and he has colour to him again. It is then that they begin to force the awful smelling tea down him.

I hear Idhren mumble a weak argument – by Eru he argues with them! Almárean puts a stop to his slurred reluctance with a tone that brooks no argument; I do not doubt that at one time or another they have each had to be the drinker of this brew and it is conducted efficiently and quickly. Almárean then supports Idhren as he trips and falls away from the camp to empty his stomach quite thoroughly, and I laugh again to hear the patient calling his nursemaid some truly foul names. He is returned to the fireside and allowed to sleep.

Legolas comes and sprawls beside me. He is shaking with exhaustion but his eyes are wide and stunned, afire with disbelief and with joy. He too can barely believe that we have found Idhren so whole – we never let ourselves hope he might be so well.

"We must wake him for the tea until the kettle is gone and he must be given nothing but water for a full day after, but I believe he will be well."

His voice trails off into a grin which is then a laugh and Almárean comes to sit with us. We are all three of us in a row and we look to one another; worn and filthy and stunned. We are grinning like fools. We have found him, by all of the stars and the moon we have found him!

~{O}~

Once our euphoria has faded we each sink into silence: all three of us wish for nothing now but to gather the horses and flee but we are out of time. Idhren must be given the tea and if we are to leave here we will have no time for stopping. Veren and Roch could easily carry two riders but Legolas is already starting to show the effects of the setting sun, and will be unable to ride either alone or supporting another. We are too close to the Shadow and must be ready to defend ourselves with light, and so I build the fire up higher. I have no qualms in being quite unpleasant about making Almárean eat his share of the birds that were cooked earlier, and we each try to cajole Legolas into eating but although he tries his best he cannot stomach the food. He takes some water and falls near Idhren to rest.

Almárean wakes Idhren and the fight with the tea is conducted again. We will maybe manage one more dose before the light is gone but this time when Idhren wakes he is more vocal and seems to know himself better, and we take heart from it. By the time the sun sets he is mostly awake, although he is greatly weakened and lies staring at the fire with eyes that hold little of the joy they usually hold. I do not care to think on what he has experienced these last days: I hope that he has spent the majority of it unconscious for his sake.

This time when the Shadow comes we know it is there before we hear it. Legolas stiffens and growls, his jaw is tight and his eyes are hard but I am not sure how well his spirit will fare this time. His body is betraying him. Idhren sees him and is uneasy, anxious, even through his own haze. He looks to Almárean… in his convalescence he has gone back to a younger elf and is looking to his old protector for an answer.

"It is well," Legolas speaks and manages a tight smile for his friend. His hands are tightly wound: one in his cloak and one in the ground at his side and it is this only that shows his distress. He feigns it for Idhren's sake. "Do not be alarmed, the Shadow hounds me still but it has not had its way thus far. It is… uncomfortable."

"You were always a poor liar my friend," Idhren mumbles hoarsely but he is too worn to make more of it. He rests his head back but although he fights to keep them open, his eyes do not leave Legolas. He sees every flinch, every clench of his jaw, every questing glance to the sky seeking respite. Idhren reaches across the short distance between them to grasp Legolas' wrist. Legolas grips his in return, and their joining touches me: they are both done in but with this contact they both take and give strength to one another.

I clear my throat and stand, making one last quest about us to ensure all is prepared. The fire is built high, enough to act as a beacon and the light is bright and far reaching. We have some arrows left to us and veritable wall of firewood.

"You, Thranduilion," I point at the elf, "are not to move a breath further away from this fire than you are right now. Even should you begin to smoulder you are to seek permission from Almárean and I first."

Legolas chokes a surprised laugh and makes a movement akin to a bow of acquiescence.

"And you," I point to Idhren whose eyes widen in alarm, "are to make every effort to ensure you are not taken again. We have gone to great efforts to get you back, I would hate for it to go to waste."

"I shall be smouldering beside the fire as well," Idhren assures me and there is a hint of his usual mirth in the relaxing of his features. I am gladdened to see it and cannot help but allow a small smile of my own.

I sit and grumble through my beard at great length, discussing with myself the many countless areas in which elves are lacking, and I choose to ignore the murmured conversation between the two regarding the flaring of my nostrils. They are in secret council with one another and shoot both Almárean and I injured looks, all the while maintaining their physical contact and I see the quiet, tall Sindar shoot me an exasperated look that only barely hides a deep affection. I see for a moment the elflings that they once were shadowed across the warriors they are, and I feel a momentary surge of emotion that I cannot name. I say it to myself again: they are making me soft.

As a sliver of a moon rises we are silent. I am the only one not gaping vacantly at the stars but we are able to track the Shadow by keeping half an ear and half an eye upon Legolas. For a while I feel my tension ease: the stars and the fire and the support of his friends give the elf much strength, and although he is visibly uncomfortable he fares better tonight than I had expected. No shrieking cry shatters the warm and fragrant night air, no dead little girls haunt the trees and no spiders hiss and rustle about the canopy. At first it is a relief to me, but as the night wears on it becomes a worry and I am not the only one who thinks on it. I hear Almárean shift and our eyes brush across one another for a moment. He is concerned. The Shadow should be furious tonight after our theft during the day – it should be upon us with all of its fury.

"It circles us, over and over again," Legolas murmurs. His eyes do not move from the heavens but everything about him is listening. "I do not know whether to rejoice or to fear the wrath that we inspire by defying it so."

"I cannot speak for any but myself, but I know not what difference it makes whether it hates me a thousand times over or a thousand, thousand times," I shrug and I do not mean to sound so casual but I cannot help it. "It is still a vast amount, and there is not a thing I can do to make amends. I have never been so thoroughly disliked before; I know not how to address it."

"I disliked you very much when first we met," Legolas offers.

"I do not believe that there is a quest long enough to resolve the differences between this creature and I," is my honest response. "In any case, you are not meant to be tracking this Shadow, you are to stare at your stars and hear your Song and think of joyful things. Continue, do not become distracted."

"Yes, _naneth,_" he sighs, and the glint in his eye is something I have missed seeing these last days. It is not enough to hide his weariness nor his pain but it is enough to say that my friend is still here: that he fights and he remains, and I am needed even if I am no more than a voice to remind him of himself. I see again Galadriel's words and they make much sense to me now.

We are silent for a while then. There is no sound usual to the forest: no creatures rustle, nothing calls – not with the Shadow and its hosts so near – but the wind hushes in the leaves at times and the fire settles and shifts. Idhren is losing himself to sleep again, but as we find ourselves lulled into believing that we have won this night there is a sharp cry in the far depths of the wood that has us all up and alert again. There again: a frightened squeal.

"The horses!" Almárean cries and would be gone into the night in a moment if his sense did not prevail. He is agonised and I will admit I feel it too: my little Naurwen, alone and unprotected and subject to the frustrated rage of the Shadow. It attacks our beasts, it would stop our escape if it cannot take us tonight and I cannot run to her aid as she came to mine. I feel that I betray her.

I hear them squealing, I hear a distant crashing of heavy bodies and it is torture to hear them set upon this way and know not how they fare. They are elvish horses and have managed to keep themselves hidden and safe all of these nights… I had not thought that the Shadow might turn its attentions to them.

"It seeks to strand us or to draw us out," Legolas tells us. In his voice is the frantic grief I feel but we stay, useless cowards within the circle of light as our horses scream and squeal beneath some distant onslaught. Their voices fade, they run, and I do not know if I will see my brave little lady again. I am sick with it, but I cannot do a thing more than hope.

The quiet that we fall into this time is miserable, and I know that all four of us strain to hear another sound or sign that our beasts live, but the forest sings with silence. Moments pass into minutes that become hours and none of us speak. Almárean rouses only to give Idhren the last of the cleansing tea, and we avert our eyes out of respect to give him some semblance of dignity whilst he empties his stomach at the edge of the firelight. He does not argue, and when he is returned he drinks the water that he is given and then falls into sleep. He and Legolas are apart again now, and although I hear and I see that my friend is fraught and pained I do not move. I am heart weary and it is not unkindness that stays my hand, but rather a numbness that blinds me. Almárean does what I fail to and sings beneath his breath but he does not sing for himself, he sings for his friend. It is the best that he can do but his heart is as heavy as mine, and it is reflected in his song.

The night passes and we are unmolested. The tension is thick – we expect it at every moment – but I keep the fire burning high, my axe by my side and I sit like a useless lump waiting for the night to end. It is perhaps the longest night of my life and I spend it walking in darkness within my own thoughts… but then at last I hear the first birdsong. The sun comes, the sky in the east becomes a heavy blue and we are alive and whole. I feel the tension escape me by slow degrees, Almárean begins to shift and stretch out the stiffness of such long inactivity and Legolas finds himself unable to fight his exhaustion any more. He is given respite, and feels himself safe enough to give in to sleep.

Had I known it, I would have stopped him from sleeping at that moment with every breath in my body. We have been lulled into false security, we believe ourselves safe too soon. Daylight is still not yet here and I realise what happens far too late to stop it. Almárean realises it just as I do and he pushes himself forward with a cry a heartbeat too late.

Legolas stiffens and his eyes snap open, seeking the sky straight away but it is too late now to find his stars or his Song; he has allowed it in and he cannot find purchase to drive it out now that it has him. His mouth is open but he makes no sound and he claws at the ground, he reaches for us, he twists upon the forest floor as though he burns and I hear my voice cry to him but I know not what I am saying. Idhren wakes in confusion and fear to the sound of our horror but in his sleep fogged mind he senses the truth of things, and pushes and scrambles back away from his friend. There is no Legolas now.

It is over mercifully quickly. In my darkest musings on this eventuality I had hoped only for this to be swift. Almárean supports Idhren and we back away: I know that their faces bear the same horror that mine does as Legolas falls still, turns upon the ground and slowly climbs to his feet. What faces us now is not he, and I feel my legs weaken and my heart break. I see the Shadow where my friend once stood.

His face is twisted into something hateful: his eyes are no longer dancing blue but the blackest of pits and never have I seen such hate upon this countenance, never such glee or cruel triumph. He stands not proudly nor is there any hint of the wild fire that is Legolas but rather he is stood as though he has been put together wrong; he is a puppet, a hunched and sloping shell. It glances at the fire and it does not recoil. It turns its gaze to the rising sun and there is no fear. It has a host that is no ancient, ragged woman. No crawling, thoughtless creature or dead thing; this is an immortal in which it has dug itself, and it knows just as we do that it has chosen well. It has won, and we are lost.

"Legolas," I whisper, and I am not ashamed to hear that I beg. "Laddie… _please_."

It turns to me and I am faced with the full weight of its scorn and hatred. It smiles and it is vicious and wicked. It is just he and I in this moment, and I search those terrible, terrible eyes for any hint of my elf.

'_Forgive me. I could not save you from this,'_ mine speak to him, but there is nothing there in response. He is gone.

It moves then, and if I thought that its broken and crooked stance meant that it might be slow or damaged in some way then I am very, very wrong. There is a flash of violence: it has his speed and his strength and his feral wildness but none of his restraint. It is fast, there is no chance to overcome our horror and defend ourselves before we are under attack, and the only thought I have time to consider is that I am thankful it has not drawn his knives. I hear a cry of pain – it is Almárean – but there is a flash and the world becomes a tumult of pain, and it is the last thing that I hear.

TBC

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**So, my gap between chapters didn't actually end up being all that long (I simply can't seem to help myself) but I can honestly say that I think we've all benefited from the slower pace. This chapter was my least favourite for a while - not because of the content but the flow was just all _wrong_. I've been able to take a bit more time with the editing, and I'm much happier for it. Horay!**

**As I'm sure you can tell, we have just crested a hill - the rest of the story is all about racing down the other side. Chapters will be a lot longer as I am merging them, but this involves a bit of heavy editing as the flow is a bit off in places. I will try to be quick but I am not going to go back to my previous speedy updates.**

**Finally, a thank you. A hundred thank yous. To those I have already thanked individually, but also to those who have reviewed anonymously. I have had a few brilliant, lengthy and constructive comments by those who I cannot message personally so to you all, your rallying cry was just what I needed. You are all very wonderful people. **

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I think it goes without saying that I'd love to get a review from you. Enjoy your weekend.**

**MyselfOnly**


	11. Chapter 11

I waken, but I do not wish to.

For a while I have drifted between my dreams and there has been a voice telling me to stay, to hide, that I do not wish to wake. When the world resolves itself around me and my memories return I wish more than anything that I had listened.

_My friend: I have lost my friend._

There is pain in my head, sharp and thrumming and I lie upon a damp and hard floor. It is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. There is much noise about me and it takes a while for me to question it: there is the sound of voices and movement and horses, but when I crack one eye open I wish that I had exercised caution; searing light blinds me and I groan.

"Master Gimli?" asks a fair voice. I try again and it is not so bad this time: sounds sharpen and clear and I open my eyes slowly, letting the light soften into the clear brightness of a fine day. The face I see before me is familiar; it is Faelwen. She is concerned and serious looking and helps me to sit. Immediately I cast my eye about for Almárean and Idhren; I see the former hunched brokenly upon a log not a stone's throw away. He has a blood stained bandage pressed to his head and he is looking at me but his eyes are flat and miserable. I hear Idhren's voice from somewhere to my right bellowing at someone that yes, he has drunk the tea, and no, he will drink no more and they are to release him so that he may minister to his friends or he will fight his way free. I feel relief that he is recovered enough now to be shouting so heartily but it is swiftly pushed down as I take in my surroundings.

Our clearing has become a camp site for about twenty elven warriors. Most are mounted but there are a handful of archers and from my time at the palace I recognise them as Legolas' men. They are organised and tidy and seem to be waiting for instruction; they do not know what has happened nor do they look as though they have been here long at all, and I feel dread where I should feel joy. Here is our rescue, but now I must explain our failure to them.

"Almárean and Idhren?" I ask and my voice sounds hoarse to me. I press my hand to my head but it comes away clean; a bash about the skull again. Does this shadow never tire of beating me about the head?

"They are well," Faelwen answers me gently. "As well as you are, although you are the last to waken. What has happened here Gimli? Where is Legolas?"

I feel sickened by the question but I have no chance to answer her. There is a stirring in the elves like a rustle in the trees before a wind, and Lord Ionwë strides forth. He is as severe and stern as I remember him and right now he is thunderous of countenance. Faelwen flows to her feet as he approaches and he glares balefully at me before turning his attention to Almárean, and when Idhren finally makes his way back to us he is ignored entirely.

"Speak!" is the immediate demand from him. "What has occurred here, and where is Prince Legolas?"

So Almárean speaks. His voice is flat and he gives a factual account of our ordeal – a soldier reporting to his superior. I realise that this is indeed the case; Legolas commands the archers but Almárean is the prince's protector first, and Ionwë is general to all of Mirkwood's army. I remain silent during the telling and pull myself up to sit upon a low stone, taking time to regain myself since I need not listen to this tale. I know it well, my heart is punishing me quite enough without hearing it again.

When Almárean is finished there is silence for a long time and I do not look up to see how the news has been received, I am sure I know. When Lord Ionwë begins to speak I know that I have read him well; he is controlled and glacier cold, but he is furious.

"How did you allow this Almárean?" he asks, disgusted, and I see my friend flinch. "You should never have allowed him to continue, he should have been returned to the palace the moment you realised what occurred and nothing should have turned your course."

"Lord Ionwë, one does not persuade the Greenleaf of anything once his mind is set," Idhren speaks up in Almárean's defence. It is cruel to put this on Almárean's shoulders.

"I do not address you, _laegrim,_" Ionwë replies. He is flint and thorns. "Return and wait with the archers, you are as much to blame in this."

Idhren recoils, stung but I feel a surge of anger. How dare he? How dare he arrive now and make my friends feel any worse than they do already?

"Be ashamed," I address him and I put every ounce of revulsion that I can muster into my voice. "Shamed that we have waited for you with such hope, that we have fought through these days to find only harsh words and blame upon your arrival. If you come only to inflict cruelty on those who look to you for help then we do not wish it from you, we will find Legolas ourselves."

Faelwen is looking at me with horror, Idhren's mouth is gaping but Almárean finally shows some life to him. The look he gives me is curious and he straightens finally, pulling away the dressing that he holds to his head. His scalp is split brow to hairline and the skin is livid with bruising but he no longer bleeds and I know well how swift the Eldar heal. Ionwë is looking at me as though I am something foul upon his boot.

"I told Thranduil that he had no business letting his son go wandering about with nothing but a Sindar who thinks himself Silvan, a dwarf and a _laegrim_ child," Ionwë tells me. "I have protected the House of Oropher whilst your ancestors burrowed and grubbed within the ground, speak with respect."

Here is the cold arrogance that I once believed all elves guilty of upon a time but I am beyond it now; I care not for his disdain. Gloin would not recognise me any longer and somehow I am brought back to myself in the face of such a creature. It is clear that he does not even favour his Silvan kin, I will find no acceptance from him and I find that I do not seek it.

"The dwarf of whom you speak," I tell him calmly, "accompanied the Ring Bearer from Rivendell as one of the Nine, and has seen nothing worthy of respect yet. The _laegrim _child and the protector who sees not 'Sindar' nor 'Silvan' but 'elf' have done more to earn my admiration than you currently garner. Leave or stay, it is no mind to me, but we have a thing to do and you are wasting our time."

Ionwë looks ready to respond but he is cut off. Almárean stands and his voice stops us, all the more remarkable for its quiet. He is as soft and as calm as he ever is, but there is no room for discussion in his tone. He is respectful but will brook no argument.

"He is correct Lord Ionwë," he speaks. "I will present myself to my king and accept any blame that he feels I am accountable for upon our return, but for now I must find his son. The prince is my responsibility and we waste time here; we seek your aid if you would give it but if you wish to tarry any longer and insult my friends then I beg your leave for now, we can continue this another time."

He is followed quickly by Idhren who has recovered from being so spurned. "Since I cannot fall any lower in your esteem my lord, I would add that the archers are each and all _laegrim_, and we will be going as well."

There is a daring glimmer in his eye, a challenge to his stance that is so much the Idhren that we thought lost that I am grateful… so very grateful to see it again. I am expecting Lord Ionwë to turn apoplectic but he falls silent and regards us all with a gaze that crushes me beneath its weight. It is as though he sees every fault, every weakness and inadequacy within me and weighs my worth. When he speaks again there is an odd quality to his voice: a puzzlement that throws me off balance. I do not have his measure yet, it seems.

"You inspire rebellion in my men, Master dwarf," he accuses, but there is curiosity in his voice now.

"Nay," I deny. "I seek only to find my friend. It is he who inspires loyalty."

I am examined a while longer and a decision is made, although I do not know what he has decided nor what he has seen in me. He nods sharply and turns, and as he leaves he is barking orders: we are leaving within moments and the _laegrim _archers are gone into the trees to scout. I had known that for all of my bold words they would not leave us to continue alone, but I still feel the relief of it when they begin to prepare.

"In all my days I have never heard you stand up to Lord Ionwë," I hear Idhren tell Almárean lowly, and there is astonishment in his voice. "Perhaps you do turn _laegrim_."

"I am weary and my head hurts, my mood is poor and my manners lost days behind us," Almárean laments. "In that sense I am sure that it seems so."

I hear Faelwen rebuke Idhren soundly for dragging the archers into the quarrel without consent, and she promises him that if they are put on any extra duties for his newfound boldness then he will be in trouble indeed. I hear her but her words wash over me – another thing troubles me. The Shadow has waited long for the chance seized this dawn; it has stalked us and hounded us, it has worn us to the bone to get its revenge upon me. Why then do I still live?

I am to my feet in a moment and although the world tilts and spins with it, I brush it aside irritably.

"Lord Ionwë!" I call, "I would speak with you a moment."

~{O}~

"Too much is left to chance," Lord Ionwë is telling me quite certainly. "It is foolishness in itself to believe this will succeed."

"Speak then of what you intend," I offer. I have told him of the plan I have been thinking on this last day or two and he is being less than cooperative, I am struggling to keep my ire in check. I know that a shouting match right now is folly itself but blast it if he isn't the most infuriating creature! He makes me feel as a child, and I could choke the stubbornness right out of him if I could. He pauses for the briefest moment beside his horse and looks at me as though I am an unruly infant pulling at his trouser leg.

"Whatever we undertake, it will be of sound reason and much thought. It will not rely on possibilities and feeling."

"Take your time!" my hands fly into the air unbidden. "I shall take a seat whilst you think! I recognise your experience Lord Ionwë but you have not experienced this, and you know not a thing about my 'feeling'. The Song of Mahal is as true as that of Eru."

Idhren grimaces. He has followed me just as Almárean has, although the latter stands further apart from us. Ionwë has him lamentably subdued and distant.

"The Song of Iluvatar," Ionwë sneers, and I know why Idhren has pulled such a face. I should have expected such a reaction from what I know of him. "You speak like one of the _laegrim; _of feeling and Songs. I would never be so foolish as to put the lives of my warriors at risk because a dwarf hears a Song."

"Legolas trusts in my Song," I point out and could kick myself, it sounds as though I pout.

"And I love our prince as a son, but his he is young and his head is too full of fanciful things."

"Was." Almárean speaks softly; just one word. Ionwë pauses for a moment and looks to him to explain himself better. "You say that you 'love' and that he 'is'. He is no longer, and you did."

And then I see it; I see the Ionwë that Legolas once spoke of to me, who read him tales and taught him to ride. Who was there at his first steps and first words, who gave him his first bow. I see the moment when he realises – actually understands what has happened, and I see him struggle not to stagger beneath it. He has no words and I find my patience anew.

"The Shadow endured the burning of its first host," I continue gently. "It survived as it has always survived, but it has never before escaped stone. I feel the earth as you cannot, you must trust me in this. I know it as surely as I know that the sky is above me: the rock about that ravine is as a honeycomb filled with countless reserves of gas – it is saturated with it! If we can cast the Shadow down into the earth we can bring it low in fire and ruin and collapse a new prison for it to dwell within, but I am in great need of your help. My people know to avoid this sense of distortion in the earth, I know neither how deep within the stone it lies, nor how much the land holds – not from here. I need help to reach it and to release it, and to keep the Shadow distracted whilst this is done. The archers must ignite it, for we must be far away by then."

"What you say suggests that we are to throw our prince into the earth, burn him and collapse a hillside upon him," Ionwë says, but there is no heat in his words. He is agonised.

"If we must, aye," I nod. "He knew when his body began to fail that this might occur, and he asked me to swear that I would not let him walk as the Shadow. I did not listen to him then but he is my greatest friend, I cannot see him this way. Do not think that I have lost all hope though… I trust in him. He is Legolas! I do not believe that the Shadow has taken him completely, not yet. There is too much stubbornness in him to allow it."

"I did not expect to survive his attack," Idhren speaks now. "It fights as Legolas and you know his skill as I do; it has his speed and his grace but no mercy or love, and still we were spared. I cannot believe that my friend does not fight it even now, I _will_ not."

Ionwë pauses. I do not know his thoughts, I cannot read this elf, but I hope to the stars and back that he realises that we do not have time for him to doubt. Legolas is half a day ahead of us, we must catch him and somehow bring him to the ravine, somehow bring him back to himself, somehow fashion a way to get the Shadow to fall. We do not have the time!

I am ready to prompt him, ready to shout and grab him so that I can shake him from his reverie but I find that I do not need to. He is back from his thoughts and looks to me, to all three of us in turn.

"You have faith," he says, and it is not a question. "You would risk this, risk _him_ on a plan so full of opportunity for failure?"

"Well," I admit, abashed. "I had hoped that some elements might have been considered further and resolved before now, but I have found myself otherwise engaged."

"I trust in Master Gimli," Almárean confirms to his commander. "He has been our voice of reason and hope; if Legolas has made it thus far then it is down to him alone. I understand why the prince prizes him so highly."

"If Gimli says that this will work then I believe him," Idhren finishes simply. I am humbled, and I am tired and weary enough to feel a pang of emotion that I must choke and push down so that I can face Lord Ionwë with a resolute face. He regards me a while longer and then turns back to what he does.

"Idhren, if you are well enough you are to join the rest of the archers and scout ahead. Almárean and Master Gimli, ride with me if you will. I wish to hear more of this folly that we embark upon."

He has relented and I could weep for the relief of it, but there is no time. A horse is found and Almárean and I ride together – it is all I can do to forget the pang of grief I feel for Naurwen that is swiftly chased by the memory of the last elf that I rode behind, which I also push away. I have no time for it.

~{O}~

It is strange, riding with elvish warriors. My experience has only ever been with Legolas and his friends who are archers all; they run through the trees or upon the ground, they are light and swift and stealthy. I ride now with Sindarin infantry, left behind by those that I know and although we are not a large group I am surprised by the difference to that which I am used to. I have ridden with the Rohirrim, with the Dúnedain Rangers and of course we came here on horseback ourselves but the elves space themselves out in a way that is strange to my experience.

The horses are elvish horses and are tall and swift, unencumbered by saddle or riders weighty with armour. The Sindar bear slender swords but they are elves of the Greenwood still, and they wear light clothing in greens and browns with only halberd and bracer as any form of protection. They are used to fighting in close quarters, and have long ago discarded the heavy weight of metal, no matter how finely skilled, instead relying on their speed and ability to protect them. Coming from a race that favour armour and suchlike it seems flimsy and worrying to be so unprotected.

I have had little time to speak to Lord Ionwë. He asks me questions when we move close enough and slowly enough; firing them at me swiftly and I answer as best I am able. He must shout, but I can answer in my own voice knowing that he hears me clearly. Almárean is larger and broader than Legolas, and I must pay attention to keeping fast hold during our flight, but I am well used to this now.

The trees flood past in a blur of summer green and I am glad that the terrain is so clear; they are the large and old sentinels that I grow used to, tall and wide with little undergrowth barring our way. I see the other horses at times, flitting like ghosts to our left and our right but I see no sign of the archers. They must be far ahead by now, I know well how fast they move but at times I hear them. They whistle and call through the wood and I can tell that they are far spaced and much before us; they speak a story of what occurs ahead and it is as though they have filled the wood with their eyes and ears. There is one elf in our party who is tasked with calling back again, and it is a long time before I can see and focus on him long enough to realise that it is Orthorien. I had not realised that he is riding with us and I am pleased.

I am given enough time after Ionwë's initial questioning to fall into thought and I cannot help myself. I fight it and know I must draw silence in my mind, but it is beyond me. I think of my friend.

Doubts shadow and hound me and I wonder what will happen. What if I am wrong? What if we were spared only for some other torture, what if he is truly gone? What if he is not – that he fights still within himself – but I am unable to do a thing about it? What if I must be the one to end the days of Legolas Greenleaf? It is not just the pain of it, for it sits in my heart like a knife and burns me with every breath that I take, but the method of it. Legolas is a child of the forest, all know this; he is wild and barely tamed and if he is to be sent to Námo before he sails then he deserves the death of an elven warrior; beneath the sky and with free air in his lungs. To be laid low within a ravine and buried beneath stone? It is cruelty itself and I cannot resolve it in my mind, I cannot accept it. It is foolish and childish but I will not think on it. I know that I must be prepared for every possibility but I am ridiculously fond of the awful elf and I will not plan for such a resolution, I cannot.

I am drawn from my reverie by something. The archers that scout ahead call to us again and I understand them as if they speak clear words in my ears; their hunting language is something I have learned well now. They call only words, images, simple messages but I form them together and realise what occurs just as Lord Ionwë does, and he whistles out a call to slow.

We draw side by side at a bracing trot and the others draw closer.

"He is destined for the ravine," Ionwë calls out. He knows that I understand already; he is speaking as he thinks. "The reasoning could be fortunate indeed… or very poor for us."

I understand his meaning. Legolas is heading to the ravine just as we had planned; either he is within himself and influencing the Shadow, leading it so that our plan can come into realisation or the Shadow knows enough of Legolas' thoughts and intentions to be leading us into a trap. My mind twists and knots and tangles upon itself.

"We have too few options for this to matter at all," Almárean responds. "If he fights, it changes not a thing. If it is the Shadow leading us a dance, then still it changes not a thing."

But there is no time to consider this. The elves respond to something that I can neither sense nor hear; they are like a herd of deer that freeze and stiffen and hold their heads as though reading the wind. Something has happened and I am forced to cling for dear life itself as Lord Ionwë gives a sharp cry and we plunge into a gallop. It is pure madness and there is no time to explain, we dash like mad things through the trees with little thought for the recklessness of it and I must trust in the horses and their riders to steer us true through the wood.

We race like this for a while – long enough for my thoughts to become nothing but a repeated wish for it to end but in truth it is likely not long at all. When we pull the horses up and come to a stop we find a sorry sight indeed.

Lord Ionwë slides from his mount as though he flies and is ahead into the clearing just as I tumble from behind Almárean. Here are a number of the archers, clustered together and milling with uncertainty and panic so different to their usual character. I run after Ionwë until I see that Idhren is one that mills about, and not one that has been collected and brought here and sat upon the floor.

The elves upon the ground are being tended to, and as I watch other elves come from the horses to assist. There is blood, much blood indeed.

Faelwen comes forward as she sees Ionwë – I know enough to know that after Legolas she commands the archers – but her face is pale and shocked. There is a graze upon her cheek that bleeds sluggishly and she holds her right arm close to her but she is well. Idhren stands right behind her, a dark expression upon him.

"_Herunya," _she greets breathlessly. "I could never have believed it. It was Legolas; he has doubled back and followed us these last miles. We could not stop him!"

~{O}~

Out of the twenty one riders to set out, eight were archers and only two are now enough to continue. Six are too badly injured to carry on and although they live and will heal, they are miserable and heartbroken that their captain was the one to do this to them. Faelwen and a small, slight thing with large soulful eyes and hair of acorn brown that I know to be called Sidhion are those left. Idhren takes their number up to three.

Ionwë sees to the injured with care and attention. He is brusque and no-nonsense as he always is but I am becoming used to his ways, and I can see that he cares greatly for their welfare. Supplies are left, all are deemed well enough to make their way home in one way or another, and we help in the binding of injuries and staunching of bleeding before we leave them to limp home alone.

Some argue at being left – they are _laegrim _after all – but Lord Ionwë silences them with only a look.

I bandage just as we all bandage, but I wish that I did not hear their murmurings. It is like the passing of wind through trees but it is clear as if it was spoken directly into my ear; all speak of Legolas. He is strong and skilled, all knew this. He is a captain by right and not by birth; they are his men and they know his ability but none have had it turned upon them in this way before. The Legolas that did this to them was like a ghost; his ability is in stealth and silence, and not one of them had seen his attack coming. Not one had been able to prepare. All of them speak of the emptiness of him; how his ears had been deaf to their voices, how he had not recognised them nor cared for the injury he inflicted. Nothing had stayed his hand in their harm…and yet all live.

It is puzzle upon puzzle. The Shadow has blinded us but has no reason at all to spare the lives of our eyes and ears; it has not even damaged a single one of them permanently. I imagine that it may have even been faster and simpler to kill them but great care has been taken to ensure their injury is simply enough to stop their pursuit. How, if not for Legolas? Does it do this simply to raise our hope? To keep us chasing, but minimise our threat? Is this just some cruelty that it has devised? I can see that I am not the only one who thinks on this; I can feel Idhren's gaze on me at times although Almárean is deep within himself, and I cannot ever read Lord Ionwë.

"Idhren and Almárean," he calls them to him. "The two of you have run with Legolas the longest and know his habits best: Idhren pair with Faelwen and Almárean with Sidhion; I still need scouts but I will not find myself entirely blinded by the prince that we seek to protect."

"He is better skilled in this than any of us," Idhren sounds doubtful. "I have fought against him only in play or in training, and he was ever the ghost that bested us."

"The Shadow is not subtle, but it knows nothing of warfare that it does not steal from its host," I tell him. "It attacks with Legolas' memory, not his imagination. What now would he do if this were any normal hunt? He has taken our eyes so that we are clustered together, how would you normally deploy?"

Faelwen and Idhren look to one another for a moment.

"We would move as the moon," Faelwen speaks. "No one pair would stay as fore or side or rear, but changing. And he would seek to take our strength next – break apart the formation, confuse and isolate the riders. He will send false calls, he will lead us on paths that separate us before we know it has happened, he will influence the trees and the horses and remove each of us from the hunt at his leisure."

"You are sure that this would be his plan?" Ionwë looks doubtful, and Faelwen shakes her head.

"If we were Orcs, we would have had our throats slit or been shot silently from the trees hours ago, and we would not be having this conversation. If this were us seeking to best one another, then aye: Legolas would always say to take away advantage, sense by sense whilst hiding your own true strength. He was always very skilled at it."

"Then he truly does play with us," Idhren takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "But is it Legolas?"

"What difference could it make?" I ask. "We have no option but to chase him."

"If it is as you say Master Gimli," Lord Ionwë speaks. "Then it responds to actions he knows we will take; it cannot react to any change. If it truly pulls from his memory and can think up naught of its own then we must be creative indeed."

"We will have to ride hard if we are to reach the ravine before the sun sets," Almárean tells us, and I wonder if he were always so gloomy. I ask him so but receive no reply other than a smirk from Idhren.

"It is as you say," Lord Ionwë agrees. "We must be gone, and I do not wish to keep stopping this way. I will not be bested by an elfling whose knives I commissioned myself."

We leave the archers miserable and grumbling to make their way home and we are gone. I ride alone now: this horse is much larger than Naurwen and without saddle but I have made good use of my time at Thranduil's palace, and have practised upon horse the way the elves ride. Legolas has taught me to be master of few things but able in all – I have watched him these last weeks labouring at healing… at learning himself again. Ai, he has even learned to carve stone! I wonder if he knows how he has shaped Gimli these last years, and I resolve to tell him as soon as I am able.

_My friend, you must remain Legolas, so that I may tell you of Gimli._

~{O}~

We ride faster now, for we are racing the sun. Lord Ionwë keeps up steady instruction to his men, and his whistles and calls I must learn anew. These are not the scouting cries that I have learned nor are they hunting calls that Legolas has taught me but the telling of a commander to his men on how they are to be deployed. I know the base of the language so I learn quickly.

I learn the difference between _'left flank in,' _and _'rear move forward.'_ I know _'archers back'_ from _'riders advance,_' and it is not long before I move from my position of refuge beside Ionwë to move with the flock by his command. I will not be a burden here; I will ride just as they do, and I see Ionwë give me a piercing look before he accepts it and gives instruction to me just as he instructs the others.

We change often: we sweep and dive and undulate in our formation as though we fly. It is exhilarating, to be a part of a living and surging thing as we race through the trees, and I have no time to think. I feel the warm, early summer air catching in my lungs and the power of the beast that carries me, and for a blessed time I do not dwell on our quarry. I do not think on what we will do when we reach our destination nor what has passed, I know only what is now and what I must do, and it is enough for me.

The sun is setting, and I wonder if I will ever view a sunset the same way again. With each breath that I take I release it knowing that we are closer to the darkness. Every step, every pace, every mile that passes beneath the hooves of my horse is a moment lost, and I glance to the sky. I am not the only one that does so: it is not often than I can see my fellows in flight but when I do I see them snatching brief looks to the falling sun. I realise that these elves are mostly strangers to me, but all know their prince. All have fought with him, all have laughed and run with him, all have watched him grow and have looked to him and their king as a light in their own personal darkness. They saw what the Shadow did to us the last time we encountered it, and I push it away again – I have had respite these last miles, I will not let these doubts in again! It is selfish and it is cowardly, but I am tired… so very, very tired.

Unbidden, the words of the Lady Galadriel spring to my mind: _'Look to the Greenleaf,' _she has bid, and when I see him in my mind it is not him that I see but rather myself. I see what he has made me; not by purpose and not with intent, but I have been changed. I think on the Gimli of old and I see a blind and angry thing, and I am ashamed of him. I like much better the Gimli that rides horses – badly, I admit – and teaches elves the ways of stone. I like the Gimli that counts elven lords and ladies amongst his acquaintance and climbs trees. I like him that gives advice to immortals and is heard. I look to the Greenleaf and I know that I am selfish and doubtful, and I know that I am unpleasant to bear at times but I cannot imagine a time now when my good friend is not there, making me wish to be better. He is worth saving, and I will be the one to do it. By Eru, I will do this!

I listen with half an ear to those calls that I can hear from the archers ahead. My ears are full of the thundering of hooves and the rushing of the wind but the whistles are designed to pierce past this, and some I capture. I know that they keep his trail, I know that we follow it true: I hear _'follow here'_ and _'come left'_ as surely as anything and although I am thankful for these miles of clarity, I focus now.

The sun is all but gone, but dwarven eyes see much in the dark. I hear the call to stop and I pull my mount in. She blows and heaves at the air, and I look to the west where the sky is a blazing riot of gold and red that I would enjoy on any other day. I pull my horse over to approach Lord Ionwë who is in conversation with Faelwen, and both glance at me but continue with their hurried exchange. I catch little of it but I hear enough to know that the trail is cold: it has vanished like it was never there.

"We have been led a merry dance today," Lord Ionwë states grimly. "Let us see if there is reason for it. The ravine is but half a mile east of us, and I grow tired of chasing."

"No matter the method," I tell him, "we must find ourselves there. Whether he leads or follows, whether it is Legolas or the Shadow all will come to naught if we face him anywhere else."

"Think you that it will follow should we lead?" Idhren asks. I have not noticed his arrival but I do not start at his sudden voice. I note that Idhren does not refer to the creature that we chase as 'he' or even 'Legolas.' To him it is not his friend that we pursue.

"I have been touched by the Shadow," I muse. "I know the strength of its feeling and how much it wishes its revenge upon me. If I go, it will follow us."

And so we go, but it is not the headlong dash that we have kept up all of the afternoon. We are at a run but it is controlled and careful; we do not run for long and I call to Ionwë a short time before we reach our destination – here, I tell him. Here is the where the stone begins to echo, after this it is nothing but brittle hollowness full of those precious vapours we seek. Here is where we must find ourselves when this ordeal is resolved and I see that he marks it well, and we continue.

When we reach our destination, it is full dark. It is dark but I have time enough to note that it is a good night for it; the sky is entirely clear and bright, and there is a wind that brings to me the thick softness of blossom, the tang of wood and the spice of a summer evening as all cools. There is a breeze that lifts my hair from my neck and it is a pleasure to feel it. The grass that meets my feet as I slide from my mount is dew soaked and deep, and I take the briefest moment to close my eyes and breathe deeply.

"There," Idhren points. He is weary – he has run all of this way upon his own feet, and I am not entirely convinced he was in good enough health to do so but there is a fey brightness in his eyes that heartens me. There is a hill at our feet; it is very steep and very long, and straggly hawthorn, bramble and briar choke it all the way down. At the foot of it there is a knot of vegetation but I know that it hides the ravine – I was told that it is narrow but I did not imagine how little space there might be between one side and the next. I can feel deep within me that it falls far into Arda's heart, but I doubt that two grown Men could lie head to foot across its expanse. I quest, because my mind is open to it, and I feel deep within the darkness of the world where I sense only confusion below. There is uncertainty within the stone; an echoing nothingness, and I know that I have been correct. We stand upon a powder-keg and I feel only relief – I have not been wrong in this, I have heard the Song truly.

There is a scream in the forest – so close, so very close and hoarse with anger and madness. The horses squeal and wheel and dance. The warriors stir and mutter, and cast about them anxiously – there are only four of us who have heard this before, and I move close to Lord Ionwë to grasp at his arm tightly.

"It is the call of the Shadow," I tell him. "Do not let your men fall to fear, it calls to weaken them and blind them."

He looks at me and I know not what he sees, but I do not quail beneath such a heavy regard nor do I look away from where I pin him with my own. He nods tersely – I know he feels the fear that I first felt upon hearing that cry – and I release his arm.

"We must have fire," I tell him, but he is already in motion. At his barked orders the elves dismount, the horses are released to find their own safety and they are all in action. They collect firewood as though it is Mithril lying upon the forest floor – great logs and fallen deadwood are dragged into pyres all about the place. Pile after pile. I call Idhren to me and we leave the others behind: a warm thrum of activity at our backs that makes me feel exposed and cold now that we are away from it.

"We have little time, Gimli," Idhren hisses to me as he jogs at my side. "That cry was close indeed, and Legolas is swift."

"Aye," I confirm, "but the Shadow knows not what we do. It will watch for just a breath longer, and a breath is all I need."

And so we skid and clatter and fall down the hill. My clothing and skin are torn by thorn and stone by my haste, but I do not feel it. I trust in my elven companion to arrest my fall should I descend too swiftly: the uncertainty of the ground is of little concern to me, and we cease at the lip of the ravine. There is little to tell of it – it is naught but a thick knot of bramble – but this is something I know. I slide through it as though it is smoke and the elf is at my side.

He watches me crouch at the edge of the deep fall and he is surprisingly patient with me. There is bramble at my back with little room to stand but I am rooted firmly to the earth: I touch my hand to the rock and I feel for the Song, and when I leap from the edge Idhren cries out in surprise. He peers over the edge to where I stand upon a narrow ledge with accusation and annoyance upon his face.

"Warn me better than that, dwarf," he hisses irritably. "We seek to regain our prince whole, but I would spend the rest of my days mucking out the stables should I let you fall off a cliff in the process of it."

"Pay less mind to what I do and more to what happens about us," I dismiss him. My hands are upon a stone wall and I feel; tracing my fingers upon it, sliding to the next perch beneath me and doing the same, letting the Song guide my hands. It is like a giant wave cresting above me; a thousand-weight of rock above and beneath and all of it telling me its story. Finally I feel it – the tiniest give in the rock. I could stop right now and cry out for the relief of it but I settle only for a joyful laugh that has Idhren's head silhouetted again against the night sky above me, curiously seeking what has me so pleased down here in the dark. I realise that I have climbed down a good distance, and know that I have been much longer than I have realised. It is time now for action.

I find my axe from where I have secured it behind me and I ready myself. My perch is narrow but I allow little thought on it; I breathe deeply and I fall into a rhythm that sings back to my father, to my forebears, through all of dwarven history. I pull back, I heft, I tense and swing and absorb the shock of the impact in my body. I am part of this mountain, I am rooted within Arda and the stone is mine to shape. I feel the weakness of it where weakness can be found, I find each whispering crack and fault, every place in which I must strike and my axe falls true. I am at it a long time but I do not feel the passage of it, so tangled am I in the Song.

Finally – Ai! Finally! – I am victorious. I break through the rock and I know that I have done what I have sought to achieve. I smell nothing, I feel nothing, I see nothing but I know that the precious gas nestled deep within the earth leaks free into the narrow ravine. I scramble back up the rock face far faster than I descended, and Idhren helps me up with a single grasped hand. When I feel the wind upon my face again I meet his exasperated look with a wild grin.

"Dwarves are an odd race," he informs me. "Feel you any better for crashing about down there?"

"Aye," I inform him, and my grin does not diminish. "Far, far better."

He claps me about one shoulder and we turn to re-join the others, but there is a cry and a shriek and we are too far away. We struggle back through the brambles and cannot climb up the hill swiftly enough. We are late, and the Shadow has attacked!

TBC

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**So, the sun has set and the final showdown has begun. For better or worse, everything is concluded before the sun rises... but what a night! Lets see some reviews guys - we've come a long way together and I'd love to know whether you're as anxious to read about this final stand as I am to tell you the story.**

**Hope you've enjoyed it and I'll see you soon**

**MyselfOnly**


	12. Chapter 12

At the crest of the hill all is confusion at first – I cannot tell what happens. I see movement silhouetted against the fires that the elves have built, and I hear fair voices raised in the controlled urgency of trained warriors. I hear Lord Ionwë, I hear Faelwen but they are further into the trees than we are. Idhren and I pause to make sense of what we see but it is a mistake – it is only my elven friend's reflexes that respond to the spider that is almost upon us, and his silver blades are flashing and spinning in the heartbeat that it takes for him to dispatch it. I am still struggling to claw my heart back out of my throat with the surprise of it when a twitching and hissing body falls at my feet, and then Idhren grips at me and pulls me along into flight behind him. I hear the shriek of the Shadow as we race to join the others and I can tell by the sound of it that it is here, with us now in the trees and circling us. It has seen me, and it is furious.

There are so many spiders still. I wonder if the Shadow has called all of the remaining creatures left in Mirkwood to its side, so many are they. They mill about, skittering shadows amongst the trees: some aloft, some hiding within the undergrowth. They are on the trunks of the trees, they are racing across the forest floor but the elves have spent long, so very long fighting these creatures that they know very well what they are about. The elves are swift, dancing things. They do not remain together but rather space out far enough to give themselves room, yet remain close enough to give or receive aid if it is required. They are a dance of fierce, cold eyes and flashing blades. Their faces are terrible to behold in their feral beauty and they cut through the spiders as though they are an annoyance only, but the strength of the spiders is their number. Ever more they come; a twitching in the darkness, a movement just out of sight, a silent throng that come and do not stop. I pay no mind to the spiders.

As I run through the battle I stop to crush one or two and I see that Idhren does the same with any that stray close enough, but we are about other business. I see Almárean, I point him out to Idhren and we head to him. He is on the edge of the battle; no firelight reaches him and he is a tall and grey dancer reaping through his attackers. The trees here are thinner, the ground more open. I take a moment to swing my axe in a great arc and separate a hideous, huge thing from a number of its legs, but before we are completely together again there is the shriek of the Shadow, and my own legs are nearly gone. It is here, right here with us!

I trip to a halt, I see Idhren a few paces ahead of me and Almárean a number ahead even further but both look to me in horror. I turn, and a ghost slips from the trees.

I feel real, physical pain at the sight of him. My chest tightens like a vice and my heart fits, each breath sounding harsh in my ears. He is a horror to look upon: his hair is come undone from his braids and hangs about his face in tangles, and I can see his eyes glaring balefully at me. They are not blue, they are black; empty pits bereft of any grace or light. His body hangs too loosely, too brokenly and it moves as though each part of it is in conflict with every other. My Legolas holds himself upright, forever ready to run or to climb or to fight. Each movement is deliberate, precise, graceful. This thing is a mockery of him.

It hangs its head low but I can see enough of that ravaged, familiar face to note when its mouth twists in a hateful smile. Its head tilts in a birdlike movement and it has eyes only for me, but I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to be looked at like that by my friend.

_Ai, Legolas. What has it made of you?_

"_Nogoth," _it hisses, and it is like an exhalation of breath. I am split between curiosity that it has learned enough to speak, and indignation that I am being insulted by a creature that does not even have a body of its own. Its words are stolen, although I am unsurprised that it speaks in Sindarin; it is possibly the loudest of the languages rattling about in Legolas' head.

"Aye," I reply clearly, and a decision has been made. I tighten and flex my hand about my axe, hold my head up high and take a few bold steps toward it. Idhren and Almárean look horrified. "Stunted indeed, by the standards of His kind, but I will take no insult from one in borrowed flesh and in stolen words. Give him back."

"_Enni," _it breathes back, and it is a poisoned sound. _"Den Aníron."_

I feel sickened to my stomach by its words – it has claimed him like a child with a favourite toy – but I force it from me. I turn my voice hard and loud and I use all of the rudeness I know best irritates my friend. I am the Gimli that he first met, I am the Gimli that harried and harassed him for a long time until Lothlorien. I am the Gimli that I sometimes still am when I wish to drive him most into annoyance.

I plant the heel of my axe into the forest floor and lean upon it to seem unconcerned, and I laugh. I laugh to cover Idhren and Almárean's departure, I laugh to cover my fear and my grief and my horror, I laugh because I have run out of anything else that I can do. If there is a glimmer left of Legolas within the creature before me then I must reach him, I must wake him, but first I must make this Shadow as angry as I am able. It is a task I put my all into – Legolas has always said that I am very skilled at vexing people. The Shadow flinches at my laughter, recoiling, and the malice in its eyes is almost enough to turn my laughter into weeping but I stand firm.

"Behold!" I throw my hand out, meaning the Shadow and calling out to all who hear. I put into my voice every ounce of mockery that I can muster. "A shadow that has come loose from its owner; I would fear the owner more I imagine. You have spent all the last weeks searching for a body to burrow into like a worm, and you choose an elf child! Why, they do not even grow beards! You have laid no finger on me… I imagine only that you fear me, but then it is to be expected. I imagine even thoughtless and mindless lost shadows feel fear of their betters. Do not believe yourself terrible to us – I would say bothersome at best. My only mistake was not burying you deeply enough when last we met."

I know the Shadow; its mind has touched mine and I know that it has intelligence. It is crude and base, and it feels only shades of hatred and rage but it understands, and it has learned a great deal in a short time. It understands my words because Legolas understands them, and it hisses a low and constant warning now. It is like the rattle of a snake or the warning growl of a cat. I see one lip lifted in a feral snarl, and there are no claws this time but it holds Legolas' knives loosely in its hands. I know that if it attacks me now I am done; speed and agility has always been Legolas' advantage and no matter how exhausted his body must be by now, the Shadow will drive him beyond endurance into the grave. None of it touches him any longer, wherever he may be.

"In truth," I feign indifference. "You say that he is yours, but he is not your elf… he is mine."

I see something then: a glimmer of affront and for a passing breath it is Legolas! I know not if I see it truly, or if I see it because I wish to see it but I feel hope then for the first time since losing him. The Shadow feels it, wrests control back swiftly and it screams its fury that I have goaded a response from the sleeper within. It screams longer and louder than I could have thought it might have breath for, and it is almost more than I can endure but I grow a tolerance for it of late. Not so the other elves – I hear them behind us crying out in fear and pain as it tears into them much as my friends were stricken at their first experience of it. Idhren and Almárean take this opportunity now to make their move.

The Shadow draws itself together and I feel a thrill of fear – it is about to attack – but my friends are swifter. Whilst I have been a distraction they have taken the time to melt into the darkness and come behind, and then they are upon it. They grab it, they pin its arms to its sides and seek to restrain it as I rush forward to help, but they are too gentle… they do not wish to hurt Legolas.

"Hold him fast!" I cry as I run, but I am not going to get there in time. The Shadow fights like a wildcat and it has no concern for their welfare: it shrieks and spits and hisses, and when its hands wrest free it has knives in each. Idhren and Almárean both cry in pain – I see blood but all is too dark and too confused for me to see who is hurt. I am paces away – mere paces! – but by the time I am close enough to give any assistance it is free again. Idhren is upon one knee and the Shadow is upon him like a whip, face twisted in rage that they dared to lay hand upon it, but Almárean is there to turn the blade with his own. He stands over Idhren and gives enough time for his friend to stumble to his feet, and then there is a brief flurry of movement. They are too fast, too nimble for me and now I am far _too_ close for comfort! Blades whirl in the starlight and I scurry back but still, Almárean and Idhren are too afraid to hurt Legolas. The Shadow has use of its host's skill and it is more than able to hold them both at bay, and when it sees me it abandons them for quarry more suited.

It is upon me then, and I hear my name called in fear but I am ready.

I am no match for Legolas in a fight of this kind; it is dark and confused, we are in a forest and it is using his knives with intent to harm. I have seen this, I have seen this used against many a foe and never dreamed that I might face it myself, but I know well enough that if I hold back for fear of the elf then I will stand little chance indeed. It rushes at me, expecting me to stumble back but instead I move to one side, my axe is slipped from one hand into the other and I draw back to punch it with every ounce I can muster squarely about the head. I know that Legolas can arrest his own movement as though a bird on the wing, so I force it off balance and it staggers to one side. I spin, my axe is turned again and the head tucked against my back, the haft brought solidly down upon its staggering shoulders.

The Shadow falls but tumbles only a second upon the ground, it rolls fluidly and is back upon its feet and facing me again. Lank hair once the golden of sunlight falls dirty about a face made ugly and twisted with hatred. It snarls and it is like the sound of a mountain cat, spitting and raging. It comes at me again but it is more careful, its flight more controlled. It flickers at me like flames, darting and dancing and once again I do something very, very foolish indeed. I drop my axe entirely, and I barrel into it the very second it is close enough.

I feel the singing blades bite, but I am too far within its guard. I punch it to the ribs, but I am too busy driving it back with everything that I have. Legolas is taller, aye, but I am far more solidly built and far heavier than he is. I drive it back and it is forced to go as I take it, straight into the bole of a tree with enough force to wind a horse. The Shadow seems to feel it not at all, but it is pinned. I have its arms restrained better than any hold that Idhren or Almárean had on it and I call out to them.

They are there in a breath and it is well that they are – the Shadow is a shadow indeed, and just as hard to hold. It screams and it is so close to my ear I know only ringing to my left when it eventually pauses for air. It writhes and fights beneath me, but my friends are with me now – pale and worried but they grab one arm each.

"Bind him tightly!" I instruct. They both have rope and seek to bind this snake that I seek to hold fast: Legolas said once that the pain in his hands was a thing that he could focus on, and if we can secure the Shadow as well as grant our friend another rope to reach for, then that is what we will do.

Almárean and Idhren find success, finally, and back away. I release the Shadow to throw it upon the ground where it falls upon one shoulder to lie spitting and raging, fighting the bindings as though it feels no pain at all. Legolas' wrists are torn and shredded by its struggle and I turn my eyes from it: no good will come from mercy at this moment, and I turn my heart to stone.

It shrieks, and it is different this time. I realise what it does almost too late but Idhren understands.

"It calls them!" he gasps, and as one we turn to see that every spider still standing now stops, casts its myriad crimson gaze upon us and begins to make way in our direction. It is one of the eeriest sights I have ever had the misfortune to see – the moment when they arrest their battle, cease, turn and recognise us. I see the Shadow within every single eye. I utter a few choice curses, then I repeat them louder. My axe is found and back in my hand very quickly indeed.

The three of us stand with the Shadow hissing and cursing in the centre of our group but we cannot hope to hold this position – I try to think on what my plan might have been for this and realise this is one of the smaller details I had not quite shored up yet. They are many, we are just three, and they come.

~{O}~

There is a wrathful cry and Lord Ionwë is there, bracketed by the wondrous sight of his warriors. Blood stained and gore streaked but feral eyed and fearsome, and welcome to behold indeed.

The warriors are all in good condition, considering. They have been fighting a while now but they are strong, the endurance of the Eldar no myth, and although they are bloody and torn they move just as surely and swiftly as they did at the start of this night. Each to a one their faces are expressionless and fierce, and it is a good thing that I am friend and not foe.

They chase the spiders, they come from overhead, they fight their way through and it is as though they are smoke; they are between us and the beasts, stood in a tight circle in no time. A number bring fire, they have left huge drifts of wood about this area and they set it alight now so that we are surrounded by flame and smoke. I catch the eye of Lord Ionwë and a moment passes between us: he will guard us – we are to pay no mind to what they do – but I must hurry. I am trusted; a thing not given easily by this elf and I nod to him before turning my attention to the thing at our feet.

It chews at the ropes about its hands like an animal. Given time I do not doubt that it could succeed but it is time that it will not have. I grab the creature and drag it, kicking and cursing, into a spot away from the trees, open to the sky and surrounded better by fire, and Almárean and Idhren follow. They are still too timid; I can see that they cringe and flinch with every rough treatment of the creature and I know it is Him that they think of.

"You will not help him this way!" I snap at them, dropping the creature back to the ground and stepping over it to roll it so that it faces the sky. "Either assist, or go to join the warriors."

I do not stop to see what they do but continue, and after a moment I am relieved that they both drop to their knees either side of me. I do not know if I could do this alone. I instruct Almárean to hold it down by the shoulders, Idhren by the feet, and I take its face in both of my hands. For a moment my eyes are locked upon those of the Shadow and I feel the world fall from me.

They are black – black as pitch and hold nothing but a cold hatred. It looks at me and I see it… _truly see it_, and it takes my breath away. I see a loneliness so aching that I would weep if I had an ounce of control over myself right now; I see the long cold of the earth and the madness of it. I see the faintest glimmer of yearning – oh, how it wishes to walk in the light! It wishes to be warm as we are warm, it wishes to live as we do, but over it all is the hatred and the cruelty and if I might have pitied it once upon a time, I know that it must be stopped. It must go back into the dark and the cold and it must give back what it has stolen.

I am falling into those eyes and I am crushed beneath the weight of the world. I am numb from cold and maddened by loneliness but I hear my name called. I hear it, I feel a warm hand upon mine, and I tear myself free. I see Idhren, his concerned face peering into mine with those forest green eyes so full of compassion and I pull breath back into my lungs, I feel the blood rushing through me again. I am thankful for my friend Idhren.

I am careful not to be drawn in again, and even as it fights and bucks and snarls beneath us, I grab its head and I twist it up to see the stars.

It fights us all the harder now, and although we struggle to hold it down we take heart from it. We are surrounded by fire and it cannot be so deeply dug in that the light of the fire and the light of the stars do not affect it at all, especially not the stars. I have seen it walking in daylight, but it was in starlight that the elves were born. In starlight they walked before ever they knew the light of the sun, it is in starlight that they draw comfort and Elbereth has always loved the elves best. It is not sunlight that will bring our elf home, it is the stars.

The Shadow screws its eyes tightly shut and fights us but we are too resolute, too desperate to let it gain purchase, to break free. I hold its face to the sky and it screams. It screams as though it is aflame, as though it burns but it is not the shriek that we have come to know and fear – it is a true and honest. It is in great pain and I do not know whether it is the Shadow that screams, or whether it is Legolas.

"_Baw Gimli, saes! Leithio nin... daro! Gin iallon!"_

I hear Almárean choke a sound of grief but he does not falter. It is not him, it seeks to use his voice to weaken our resolve but it is heart breaking to see him so agonised, so in pain, and to be the cause of it.

"What if it is him?" I hear Idhren ask in a small voice.

"It is not," I bite out angrily. "Legolas would never beg so."

Even so, as I reach forward and prise open its eyes I hear Almárean murmur comfort to his prince – his ward – pinned to the ground at his knees. As the Shadow arches from the ground, as its eyes can see nothing but the stars it screams again. It screams and screams as though it might tear its own throat out, it screams with hatred and fury, pain and grief. It does not want to go. I hear Almárean whispering in their musical tongue, words tripping and falling from him to the ear of the elfling he has all but raised. I close my heart to the pain in his voice, I hear not his words. Idhren has fallen deathly silent and keeps to his task, all but lying across the Shadow's lower half as its legs kick and its body bucks and fights him. His face is white and so very afraid for his friend, but his eyes are like flint. He hears Almárean – he can do no less than hear his words whether he wishes to or not – and the heartbroken, murmured comfort is twisting at Idhren as it twists at me, but we do not falter.

The Shadow tries again to cajole, to beg, to call to us to release it. It tells us that we burn him, that we hurt and betray him and begs to know why we do this. We do not reply. It turns then to threats, to accusations, to cruel jibes and unkind mocking. Still we do not reply. It learns so quickly – so fast does it learn language, so swiftly has it pulled Legolas' memories and knowledge of us from his mind. I do not know how much longer before it buries itself so deeply that we will never tear it free, I do not know if that moment has not already passed us by, but I cannot think on that. I cannot think on anything right now other than the threatening, begging, screaming thing beneath me, and if I could I would shut my eyes and cover my ears and never speak to another soul again but I stay steady. I cannot lose him… not like this.

_Do you hear, my friend? Not like this._

The battle continues around us and I wonder how much time we have been this way. It cannot be long, but it feels as though I have lost years to this moment. I grip my hands in golden silk, I brush it from his face and I force him to face his stars and finally – there! A gasp: a shuddering, choking heave of air and I see him. Now I speak.

"Legolas!" I cry, "laddie! We are here, we are all here, but you must fight awhile longer."

And he curses. By Elbereth he curses! They are inventive, crude, _laegrim_ profanities but they are not for us. It is Legolas!

"_Get it out of me!"_ he cries, his teeth clenched so tightly I can barely make out his words. He chokes back his pain – he does not scream as the Shadow does – but I can see him, I can truly see him now and when he glances at me with fierce, furious eyes of blue I nearly sit back on my heels and weep then and there.

My hands are not pinning his head to the ground now, they bracket it. I pat one cheek and I choke as well, something between a sob and a laugh.

"It is down to you to do that, you awful elf. We are here, but we cannot fight this for you."

His eyes close and his head tilts back upon the ground, stretching his neck almost to the point of snapping. His forehead is furrowed in pain but it is something else – it is determination, it is anger, it is the pure unbridled will of my elf as he seeks to push out the thing that has taken what it does not have any right to. When he opens his eyes again they are wide and he seeks his stars as a drowning man seeks the air, and by Eru he screams. This scream is defiance, it is more a war cry than anything that has passed his throat this night and when the Shadow leaves him it is explosive.

Legolas arches upon the ground and the darkness is gone like it has been forced to flee, a spreading bloom of shadow that knocks us all to our behinds in surprise but when it is gone, Legolas slumps again and his eyes are shut. His breath is loud and hoarse and we rush to him. We begin to crowd about him and Idhren is cutting his bonds quickly, but the first thing he does with his mangled and bloody hands is to wave and bat us away from him.

"I have been confined enough," he breathes irritably. "Give me air, even for a moment before you start clucking about me."

I am stunned. They are not the words of thanks and greeting I had expected, but he cracks one eye open then and grins at us. He is clearly exhausted, battered and bruised but it is no weak and wilting smile, no faltering expression of emotion but a broad, relieved grin. I cannot help myself; I let myself fall back onto my behind again and I am laughing. I must laugh or I will fall into tears and he turns to me, reaches out and grips my hand. It is not his usual crushing grip – his hands must be painful again now – but it is a seeking of reassurance, a promise that he is well… it is thanks all in one. I see the gratitude in his eyes for a moment and I brush it away with a shake of my head. There will be time enough later for such things, I cannot do it. I am weary and aching and my heart is fit to burst with all I have experienced these last days, and it is not over yet.

"Help me up," Legolas bids. I expect Almárean to fight it but he is too devastated with his own emotion to so much as speak right now. He helps Legolas to pull himself upright, and when Idhren can contain himself no longer – launching himself at his friend to envelop him in an embrace with a wild yell of joy – Almárean sits back and covers his face.

Legolas pats Idhren's back awkwardly, ready to topple over again, and when Almárean is able to compose himself he uncovers his face, leans forward upon his knees and is himself again. He pulls Idhren from his friend, he begins to pull what is left of the rope from Legolas' wrists and tears strips from his cloak to bind them well enough to make him more comfortable. All the while he is reprimanding them both and promising them that they will drive him to sail before the year is out, and demanding to know what he has done to them to deserve such cruelty. Idhren and Legolas grin at each other through the admonishments. I do not believe that this is the first time they have been subjected to this lecture.

Legolas turns then to the battle about us even as his wrists are still being bound. He sees all that occurs and then seeks me out, and I read much in his eyes. For a moment it is just he and I, and my question hangs thick in the air between us.

"I do not know," he shakes his head, answering what I have not asked. "I do not know if it truly understood what we do here. It was base and without form or thought of its own, it tore through my mind and memories as though they were gossamer webs, but I do not know if it understood them all. It was starting to, certainly."

"Where is it now?" I ask.

"The child," he replies. "It will seek refuge in the child. With every spider that is felled, it takes another part of itself back. The spiders must all be killed before we do anything to its host."

"Will it try to take you again?" Idhren presses. We are still sat on the ground like children and I am suddenly much more aware of the fighting about us. Legolas does not answer straight away and it is this that answers the question better than his words – he looks to each of us and I see a glint of terrible fear in his eyes, there and then banished.

"Perhaps," he replies softly. "My fëa is a raw and flayed thing right now, I truly do not know if I can fight it again."

"You can," I tell him certainly, and I am to my feet. "Can you stand?"

He nods to me before he has even thought it through, and if that does not speak of Legolas then I know not what does. In truth it takes great effort to get him on his feet, and even then Almárean must support him a while. I find and retrieve his knives, and there is a look of relief upon his face when he once again has them. They are a comfort to him, and he shakes himself free from help to stand swaying and weak, but resolute. His eyes are wild and fierce with the amount of will that it is taking to keep him upright but I need not fear, I trust in that will. By Eru I have never known a force like it!

He looks to me and smiles, a faint glimmer of jest about him even as he stands ready to fall.

"Are you enjoying your hunting trip, Gimli?" he asks, and I could murder him right as he stands for taking time now to joke after the grief he has put me through these last weeks, but I do not. I nod and I shrug.

"I understand the allure of it for some," I reply simply. "I can imagine why elves enjoy themselves – you are an odd race after all – but I think I shall stick to hunting creatures that I can eat afterward."

He laughs then and it is as though I can breathe for the first time since we lost him. A night and a day, it has only been a night and a day! I have lived my whole life over and then twice again for the weight I feel now upon me, but such a short time has passed. I smile back but I am choked and I try to find the words to tell him how glad I am to see him again, but he reads it in me and stops me. He waves one hand to tell me that he understands, and brushes his fingers upon my shoulder like the brush of the wind. We are set to leave but I stop for a moment and grab at Legolas' shirt sleeve, and he looks to me with a questioning.

"What brought you back?" I ask him, and I fix my eyes upon his. I search him for every nuance of expression, every passing emotion upon his face. I look upon him as though imprinting his features in my mind all over again and for once he seems uncomfortable under my scrutiny. He understands what I ask but he struggles to find his answer, and I ask it again. "We thought you gone – I did not believe we would truly reach you. What brought you back to us?"

"We do not have time for this," Almárean pushes gently.

"We have time," I snap back, but do not take my eyes from my friend. Darkness passes his eyes and he casts his gaze to the forest floor, but he does not hide from my question – he is thinking.

"I was far away," he tells us slowly, quietly; dredging forth a memory he does not wish to relive. "I was buried deep, pushed away and hidden in the cold and dark places within the Shadow. But I could still hear your voice, Gimli. I felt the touch of my friends and I remembered. I heard Idhren as well, and I heard Almárean telling me to find strength, to come back to you all. I felt the starlight upon my face and I remembered the Song… I was awakened. It was not the stars, not the warmth of touch nor the voices of those I love best, but it was all of those things together. I remembered myself. It hurt very much, but I remembered."

"Do not forget," I tell him. "All of those things that hurt it the most: do not forget them."

He looks up and he meets my eyes, and they cut like knives. He is defiant and stronger than he has been since we left the palace – perhaps stronger than even before then – and I can see that he holds it in his heart. He remembers everything that he is and he wears it about himself like armour. I do not know if it is strong enough to withstand the power of the Shadow, but it is the only thing that I can arm him with. There is a moment when I realise that Legolas is surrounded again by the faint nimbus that surrounds all elves as he reflects his stars and I am relieved – relieved to my very core. He is hurt and I do not know how he is even upright and moving, but we are not the only ones to have found Legolas again this night.

He nods stiffly in affirmation, and I return it. We are set to join the fray.

~{O}~

In all my years I never thought to see Legolas look more a child than he does when Lord Ionwë sees him approaching. The fierce elven commander that I am, frankly, quite frightened of forgets his surroundings and purpose as soon as Legolas sways and staggers toward him. His sword is sheathed and he strides across the charnel field to grab his prince by the shoulders and glare into his eyes as though reading his very heart. The smile that Legolas gives him is small but his entire face softens with it; it is the smile of a child to a much loved family member, and I am stunned when Ionwë roughly pulls him into an embrace, cradling his head to him and closes his eyes for a breath. It is brief but it is enough to have me ready to interject for fear of his welfare, but Lord Ionwë pulls him again out to arm's length, and although my friend looks stunned and slightly ruffled, he actually laughs softly.

"Your archers are greatly depleted," Lord Ionwë tells him. There are no recriminations. It was not Legolas that depleted them. "They are few, but they need you if you are able."

"Give me Orthorien and five shall be all I need," Legolas promises.

"I have need of Master Gimli here," Ionwë counters.

"It is best," is the wry response. "I have no time to shove his behind up into trees. Do not lose or break him though, I am fond of him at times and he needs much looking after."

"I am neither absent nor deaf, nor am I a thing to be traded." I grunt at them both. "If you are done hugging there are still many spiders left to dispatch and only half a night left in which to finish this. Care you to join me, or shall I go on ahead?"

Ionwë makes a sound that may suggest amusement – I am unsure, his face does not change – but he inclines his head and I take that as invitation to take lead. I spare one moment to shoot Legolas a narrowed glare.

"You are well enough for this?" I demand, and I know he is not.

"I am if I do not think on it," he admits. "What difference would it make if I were not?"

I cannot argue that logic and I grunt again, and my glare now is turned to Idhren and Almárean. The former twitches to be moving, the latter has not stopped watching about us this whole time and I fix them with my darkest glare.

"Keep his mind where it must be," I instruct them. It does not occur to me that I am giving orders to the Firstborn, nor does it strike me as odd that they both accept it as they would from their own commander, but when I turn to leave with Ionwë I feel a pang of regret to be separated from them.

I hear Legolas whistle a sharp, shrill call that pierces through the fray and I see three figures freeze and melt away to answer the summons. I am twitchy with exhaustion but my entire being vibrates with feverish energy; my endurance is whittled down to the purest of needs. I wish to fight, I wish to protect my own, and I wish to win. I heft my axe once or twice in my hand. I feel the familiar weight of it; the smooth wood and the off-centred balance that I have known my whole life. I open my heart and my mind wide to the Song of Arda, I push fear and doubt far back where it is hidden and crowded by wrath and revenge, and I stride forth. The elves need not protect us any longer; their circle fades and melts away and the spiders come through the gaps.

I swing my axe, and I welcome them.

TBC

* * *

Translations:

_Nogoth - _stunted one

_Enni...__Den Aníron - _for me... I want it

_Baw Gimli, saes! Leithio nin, Daro! Gin iallon! - _No gimli, please! Release me... stop! I beg of you!

**So what do you think? :)**

**There are three more chapters left of this night, three more chapters until this story is concluded, three more chapters in which an awful lot can happen! **

**As always I'd like to thank you all, but this extra special thanks goes out to my anonymous reviewers who I cannot thank individually. I've had some amazingly in depth and constructive reviews off you guys, I just wish I could message you back! Thank you, and thanks to everyone for the continued support. I don't think I'm going to know what to do with myself once this is all posted and over! **

**Enough rambling from me, I think. Drop me a review, I'd love to hear from you, and I'll see you all next week.**

**MyselfOnly**


	13. Chapter 13

As the night passes its middle and the sharp slice of the moon begins to fall past our sight I begin to notice a change in our battle. For the last number of hours it has been relentless – never could I have thought so see so many spiders, never could I have thought there might be so many to begin with. The Shadow has drawn countless number of the beasts: pulled them forth from their lairs, called them to it from where they have been hidden from the elves until now. We are tripping and stumbling and falling over their bodies. We are increasingly weary and so few, but although the elves are injured and worn and only a handful in number I am astounded by their resilience. It is no wonder that they have held this forest for all of these many, long years.

I feel my blood burning through me like fire and I have lost track of the number of spiders I have crushed into oblivion. I fight beside Lord Ionwë who is like the very spirit of vengeance: a quicksilver dancing thing whose sword I see flaring and glimmering in the peripherals of my vision. I know that Legolas and his warriors are with us – they are sylphs, shadows… darting and quick. Spiders fall by their hand but we do not see them. Their knives are true and swift, they are silent assassins there and then gone. I see a golden head from time to time but I have no attention to spare him: his friends watch him and so I must trust in them.

As the moon begins to fall, I notice that the spiders are no longer so many. The trees no longer crawl with them, the forest floor is no longer a teeming mass of skittering legs and crimson eyes. There are few enough for me to take a breath to look about and what I see chills me.

The bodies are thick enough to bar passage in places: they lie upon one another and create a carpet of fouled corpses. I have time to consider what the Shadow has thought to accomplish by driving these beasts ahead: always onward, always toward us. Never have they stopped to consider their fate, never have they paused or shown awareness of the futility of their march toward our blades. They have been mindless, dogged and I am wondering if perhaps we have been kept busy for a reason.

When finally – finally – the last of the creatures are dispatched we stand, searching about us for more. We see the fires burning low, we see bodies upon bodies of the creatures we have fought this night but we see no more, and we do not see the Shadow.

I cast about, nervous and thrumming with exhausted energy but we are alone in this clearing.

We come together and I see one elf drop to his knee, another sit for a moment to rest, I see others begin to minister to their companions. They are bleeding and hurt, but they live. Ionwë takes time to look to the welfare of all of his men but it is quick; he is sure that all will be well and then he comes to me just as six figures drop from the trees. When I see Legolas I nearly yell with the state of him but he is quicker – he comes to me and takes me in with one single assessing glance.

"You are little but soot and blood Gimli," he tells me as though I am at fault in this. "You should sit down!"

"Take a glance at your own state before criticising mine!" I instruct him, and his face twists in a look of disbelief.

He is pale and exhausted – he looked that way already – but now he bleeds from one brow and the blood runs down his face making him look like a ghoul. I see one arm bleeding freely and he limps, his face is bruised and dirty… but it is his eyes that I read. They are just as determined, just as strong. He is running on nothingness but still he moves.

I will admit that I hurt and ache. I too am injured. During my battle with the Shadow Legolas' knives scored me well across one hip and the spiders have done much damage since, but it is nothing that will stop me yet. Tomorrow I will regret not taking the time to see to myself, but first I must make it until tomorrow.

"What does it wait for?" Lord Ionwë asks, coming to us now. He is still full of the fight; his eyes are like coals burning within a mask of blood and ash. He directs his question to Legolas who holds his hands wide in a gesture that says he knows nothing of the answer.

"I was within the Shadow but I was not privy to its plans," he tells us. "I know nothing of why we still stand here, nor why it drove the spiders so."

"You must think," I push him. "You knew its mind just by a touch from it: I do not believe that you know nothing after so long within the same body."

"I do not!" he cries, and fixes me with a heavy look.

'_Do not ask this of me,' _he begs, and although it hurts me more than he will ever know I choose not to hear.

"You must try harder to remember," I insist.

He blames me in no way, I know it, but when he turns from me I feel guilt nonetheless. He folds gracefully to the floor and sets his head in his hands… he is too worn to remain upon his feet. Idhren moves close enough to be ready should he be needed and Almárean, as ever, is there to watch over them both but neither touch him. I crouch before him – I cannot see him so distressed and not feel anything at all – but as I lay one hand upon his shoulder I realise why the others left him well alone. He bats my hand away and fixes me with a heavy look, but I do not move. After a time his baleful glare softens, and he glances away so that I cannot see his face.

"I have come to remember some things," he tells us honestly after he has had time to regain himself. He peers up through one hand and fixes his eyes upon mine. "I remember the archers… my men. I recall what I did."

"It was not you," I tell him flatly.

"It was my hand that drew their blood," he says, looking blankly at his hands as though he sees the red staining there still, as though he does not know what to do with this memory that is not his.

"It was your hand that spared them," I am upon those thoughts like a pail of iced water. "Do not think on what ill it forced you to do, think on what it does here tonight. We have too little time for games."

His head is into his hands again and I know that he delves deep into the darkness that he does not wish to touch. I know that Legolas will be stained with this for many years to come – that we have only touched upon the damage done to him these last few nights, but I cannot think on it right now. If we are to succeed I must push him, and he must remember what he does not wish to.

"There is one thing I recall," he tells us, and his words come slowly. He does not wish to remember. "It sifted through my memories and thoughts like they were there for the taking, it felt like they were being stolen from me. The more I clung to them, the faster they were torn away. It wished only to know how to defeat you, how to win, and it was those thoughts it was most hungry for. I recall one thought that it clung to and examined longer than the others: it is a lesson I always put to best use when training with the archers and so it was there, at the fore of my mind and easy to snatch away. It was to hide your true strength… to have an unknown advantage. It has something hidden from us, I am sure of it."

We are all silent for a time, turning his words over in our minds and trying to think on what use it might be. Legolas looks to us with raw hope – he wishes for this to be of some use, he does not want to think any longer on the plundering of his mind.

"What does this mean?" Idhren muses aloud. "That this was not its true force?"

"I think it has been absent from this fight a long while," Ionwë answers. "I think perhaps we have been kept busy whilst it returns with its other host, and I think we should be well prepared for its return."

"Whenever that may be!" I huff. I am frustrated. The night draws onward – I do not know what we will do if the sun rises before this nightmare has been ended. The vapours that even now stream from the hillside will be spent by midday and dissipated by the time the night falls again, and I have no other plan to offer if this one falls flat. "Can you feel it still?"

"Some," Legolas admits. "Not as I could. I believe it has fled me quite thoroughly this time, I am sorry."

"It is not a bad thing Legolas," I tell him, and when I grip his shoulder this time he does not knock my hand away. I smile at him and he fixes me with a look that shows a glimmer of the relief he feels in it. "I am glad you are free of it at last."

"I intend to remain so," he tells me quite honestly.

"Perhaps we should seek it out?" Idhren suggests, and Faelwen shakes her head.

"We are too few to start running around blindly in the trees. I would counsel much thought before we split what warriors we have."

"Agreed," Legolas nods, and struggles back to his feet with much help from those about him. "Although from what I understand of it, I do not believe it will leave us here long; it is too angry, too ready for this to end just as we are."

I am doubtful at first. I worry that the Shadow will leave it too late – that it has gleaned our plan from Legolas' mind and all this will be for nothing as the sun rises. My heart is torn… I wish for nothing more than to feel the light upon my face again, if just to rest a moment, but I fear it. I fear the dawn passing with this battle unresolved. Where next after this? I cannot think on a single thing we might do should we fail tonight. But my doubts are gone in a moment.

I hear the familiar shriek in the darkness almost as though it has been listening to us: it is close, and I reach out to Legolas who only stiffens and clutches briefly at his chest. It pains him, it is clear to any with open eyes, but it does not cripple him as once it did. Indeed, he has driven it far from him. What is left within him now is just a scar, a stain within his fëa that he may never be rid of.

We turn as one to face the source of the cry and we are not kept waiting for long. I feel dread within my gut and ice along my spine when she comes from the trees. I have a moment to muse on how I never thought on it as 'he' when it wore the face of Legolas, but I have never stopped thinking of the Shadow as 'she'. Certainly at this moment I cannot tell whether it is male or female, I only know because I have seen it wear this host threadbare and know how it looked to start.

The child stands at the edge of the furthest firelight. She is broken and filthy, spoiling in the summer warmth and I feel a sickness roiling in my stomach at the sight of it. I can see a section of bare skull beneath a scalp matted with gore filled hair. Her eyes are no longer filmy white but flat and blackened and her skin is mottled with rot. She holds herself in the same loose, broken way that it held Legolas' frame and her head tilts to one side as though curious.

"_Nan aear ar in alin!" _I hear Lord Ionwë breathe. "This is what has pursued you all of these leagues?"

"She was not so… decomposed at first," Idhren confirms. "But aye, that is our Shadow. And shadow indeed, for she has been there every step of the way."

"Look," Almárean points, and there is a moment of held breath when all warriors assembled beneath these trees see what accompanies her.

"_Elbereth_," I hear one breathe, I know not who, but it is a fair assessment of the situation. She has brought with her more spiders – only five this time – but they are huge. The smallest is taller than any elf here and she has hidden her true strength well – we are exhausted and hurt, and I do not know if we are enough for this.

There is a moment when I know that whether elf or dwarf, Sindar or Silvan our thoughts are the same. I can read it in the air as clearly as I smell the foulness of the dead spiders, the wood smoke, and below that the scent of broken and churned undergrowth. It is such weariness – a leaden lethargy that tells of the hopelessness we feel. We cannot do this, not after all we have fought tonight. These behemoths would be daunting even if we were fresh and double the number that we are, but all of that is washed away in a moment.

Lord Ionwë barks out clear instruction to his men just as Legolas quickly calls to deploy his own. Their voices cut through our despondency like a razor; they give us no time to think or fall into despair and it is impossible not to follow their command. Were I less weary I would perhaps question that I am taking command from the elf, but he has endless years more practise at rallying exhausted troops against creatures of the dark. I find myself responding to him and I take heart from his confidence, whether feigned or not.

His archers are sent into the trees, although they are archers by name only now. They are spent of arrows and have disposed of their bows, and are armed with knives alone. I see them vanish but I do not see where they go, I know only their places by the shrill whistled instruction from their commander. Legolas stays by my side where Lord Ionwë also remains, and the other elves are spaced in a loose formation. Lord Ionwë himself is harsh with his men – he reprimands wilting stances and tripping feet, and it gives them strength to straighten their backs and face the threat anew. I am beginning to understand him.

A moment before the spiders rush at us I turn to Legolas.

"When we are done here," I tell him quite certainly, "I am going to smoke an entire barrel of pipe weed and you are to say nothing on it. We will visit a tavern, you are going to drink ale with me, and I will hear not a word of complaint. After I have had my fill of smoking and ale drinking, I believe I should quite like to visit our friend in Minas Tirith and city of stone or not, I do not expect a single sigh to pass your lips Legolas Thranduilion."

He barks a surprised laugh, and I know he does not mean it but such laughter coming from a face so ready for battle comes out feral and frightening. His eyes are upon the Shadow, they have not left it for a moment.

"I believe you have earned all that and more, my friend," he replies. "But I do not intend to set foot inside any place with a shadow deeper than is cast by the sun, not for a long while after this. I shall shout to you from outside – all who see us believe us odd in any case, it will not matter."

I cannot help myself: I feel my face relax into a grin and suddenly our situation no longer feels so hopeless. What sort of dwarf would be standing here now without this elf? What if I had failed? What if his strength had given out? I care not imagine it.

The lumbering beasts are upon us. They are slower than their quicksilver kin but then they do not need to rush, their strength is not in their speed or their number but rather their size and might, and there is no further time for thinking.

~{O}~

Our fight against the spiders up until now has been a wild and wrathful affair. The elves have fought in a well choreographed dance but they have been fighting their own battles within their own space; reliant upon on another, aye, but mostly alone, and I have found my own place within their ranks. Now it is different. We fight as one.

I learn quickly the way the elves fight larger spiders. Although I do not believe they have had to battle so many at the same time, I know that these larger beasts are not uncommon in the furthest reaches of the south. I have never before encountered such beings but it becomes swiftly apparent that this is something that is suited quite well to the dwarvish way of battle, and my courage is bolstered a hundred-fold when I find my rhythm quite easily.

I fight alongside my friend, which is where I best like to be. Legolas may not have his bow but he is fearsome just as he is; armed with flashing blade and dancing speed. He swings himself up upon the back of a lumbering nightmare, all thick heavy legs and impervious carapace, and he is grace itself – a leaf upon the wind. I root myself to the ground and feel the Song of Arda beneath me, and I do not waver beneath its onslaught. With a swing of my axe it is missing a fang the length of my forearm. With a slash of elven blade it is blinded. I take a leg, I split its carapace… I hew and strike at it as though it is no more than a particularly repugnant tree. Legolas crouches upon its back and pays no mind to how it bucks and rears, screeching and mewling beneath my cold and efficient dismemberment. He finds the split in the spider's carapace – too thick for my axe to do much but start his work for him – and he plunges his blade deep down into whatever brain such a creature can profess to have. It takes much strength, but he pushes his whole weight into it and the beast buckles lifelessly to the forest floor.

Legolas leaps free as the beast falls and we cast about for the next. Heartened, the other warriors renew their efforts and now there are only four, but our success is short lived; we have not kept close enough track of the other creatures and I have forgotten that within each one resides the Shadow. Its hatred for me has not abated and it must view Legolas quite similarly by now, and as our defeated abomination releases its breath of darkness back to its host I am distracted by the shriek it lets out. For a moment I am torn between keeping track of the Shadow and by the milling spiders, and it is enough for things to go badly for us.

I am aloft – I am airborne! I feel a piercing pain in my side and I fly through the air to land heavily a good distance from where I had been. All is a blur and I am winded, gasping and heaving air back into my lungs so that I have not the breath to answer Legolas' dismayed cry. I look to see a myriad of him, blurring and merging as though I am deep in my cups and worse the wear for drink. I blink and fight it and he becomes one again, but whether it is the same spider or a different one he is ploughed into just as I was swept aside.

Legolas is distracted by my welfare and I have not the breath to warn him. A spider half the size again of the one we have just slain shakes off the elves that seek to gain a hold upon it, and it is upon him. If I could I would shout to him – as it is I hear Lord Ionwë cry out, much as I would if I were able – but as I stagger back to my feet I see that he has not been crushed. He lies upon the forest floor with a single silver blade buried deep within the creatures' head just inches from its snapping maw, and he holds its head back from him. It must take all of his strength to keep it so, it is fighting with all it has to get those fangs close enough to do him harm and with a creature this size, if it is successful I do not doubt that he will be bitten in half.

I am up and moving, and the fierce pain in my side resolves into a raw burning that ebbs and flows with my breath. I feel wetness, I am bleeding, but I am losing track now of my hurts. I know only that I must help my friend, but I have been flung too far and I realise too late what the Shadow does. We are being separated.

Another spider is in my path and barring my way as I move to assist my friend. I roar in anger and frustration and I hack and hew at this nuisance monster as I did the last but it is learning – it is the Shadow – and it dodges my axe. I have been kept too long, and I see the spider that has my friend so pinned squeal in frustrated pain as he continues to maul it about the head. It rears upon its backmost legs and Legolas is flung just as I was flung, but he is gone in the opposite direction. Now the full distance of our battlefield lies between us, and although Legolas lands poorly he is to his feet with a lurch and a stagger that hides any damage the spider may have managed. Whatever relief I feel at seeing him recover his footing so well is gone from me when I see that he has landed right at the very feet of the Shadow.

He rises slowly. It looks him eye to eye, tilts its head… and it screams.

~{O}~

Legolas is out in the cold, alone with the Shadow and the rest of us are useless to him. The spiders are beset by elves but they drag their damaged and broken bodies as though they feel none of it – they are driven past sense or understanding by the shadow within them, and they know only one task; they are to keep us away.

I am kept too busy to fight my way free. I have half an eye upon my friend but he is too far distant for me to see, not with any clarity. I am blinded by huge, furious spiders that are being driven by a dark whisper in their minds even as their bodies are rendered too damaged to continue. They are blinded and crippled, leaking gore upon the forest floor and frantic in their death throes but still they fight.

I see Legolas but I can barely make out what he does. He lives, certainly, but I do not know how he fares against the Shadow. Neither of us has fought her within this body; I do not know if this host is as durable as the ragged woman or as easily damaged as the spiders. I cannot know, I cannot see!

Although it rails against everything within me I must trust in Legolas and focus on what I am about. Another spider falls and does not rise, there are three now but the elves begin to wane. Two fall to injury, then another two, and we are dwindling in number as the spiders become increasingly desperate. They fight with no care for their own welfare – they fall upon swords to get to those that bear them, they rush at us to crush as many as they can without thought to the injury they sustain in the act. They are moving only because of the Shadow and I turn all of my remaining strength to crippling them. No matter what force keeps them going, they cannot fight if they have no legs upon which to stand, but they are wary of me and will not engage me in fight. I must work twice as hard to reach them and then disaster strikes.

I hear a cry, and it is a heartbreaking cry of anguish. I am distracted – I know that voice – and I seek about me for the source of the sound. I see Idhren hauling Almárean free of the fray, and although the Sindar is struggling weakly he is clearly hurt. I forget the fight, I see only my friends and I leave the other elves for a moment to see the extent of the damage to him – he who has been such a source of comfort and strength to me all of these days past. I feel sick with fear at what I will find when I reach them.

I come upon them and Idhren looks to me with wild eyes full of panic and grief. Almárean's chest is sliced open almost collar to sternum; it is a grievous injury and bleeding greatly. He is fighting us, he is trying to rise but he has not the strength for it, nor the breath to argue. Enough is enough.

I whistle to Faelwen and am surprised when she responds and comes to us: dismayed she drops to Almárean's side and helps Idhren in staunching the bleeding. She is wordless – her face is pale and bloody and looks grim as she takes in the damage to the elf upon the ground.

"Know you where you must be when the hillside collapses?" I ask her, and my own voice is harsh and hoarse. She nods numbly and it is a good moment or two before she understands what I am about. Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth to argue, but I am not in an arguing mood. "Take the archers there and make fire, cast about before you leave and be ready to shoot whatever you can find into the ravine. When this thing happens it must be swift and we have too many injured: take with you all those who cannot fight, but any with skill at bow are to help."

"_Baw,"_ Faelwen shakes her head with a scowl. _"Avon cared, _it is foolishness itself to continue without us!"

"He is not asking, Faelwen," Lord Ionwë interrupts with a voice that would stop the tides. I am not surprised to hear his voice; he could do no less than hear us and has come closer. He is favouring his right side greatly and he leans heavily against his sword as he speaks. "There are only three spiders left."

"We could not fight off three squirrels right now!"

"Do not argue this way!" Lord Ionwë growls angrily, and rather than be cowed by his tone Faelwen glares back at him, defiant, her fists clenched. "This is why the _laegrim _do not fight amongst my ranks. Prince Legolas is not in a position to command you right now, and you will go by my word in this or by the Valar you will hand in your knives upon our return home."

She bows her head, she has been shamed. _"Ve thorthol," _she chokes out. "What of the others?"

"You must help me in reaching Legolas," I speak. "He is alone, and I fear for the time he has left to him fighting as he does; he does not have the strength to do this alone. But we must be left to it, and the spiders must be dead with all of the Shadow returned to it before we can end this. I beg that you end these foul things, and then you leave. All of you."

I direct my last words to Lord Ionwë, who looks to me with scandalised eyes and a hard face. I meet his gaze with open honesty and hope that he can see the importance of doing as I ask; we have not the time for any argument.

"Please, Lord Ionwë. I have not led you astray thus far and I do not intend to do so now. Give us an hour, and bring down the hillside whether we are returned or not. I will bring your prince back to you or we will meet our end keeping this Shadow from ever walking another step upon Arda."

Idhren reaches out and grabs at my sleeve. I look down and I am caught in eyes of forest green… I feel my resolve waver. He crouches beside Almárean whose eyes are closed – a fearful sign in an elf – and Idhren is grief stricken. He is terrified for Almárean but he does not want me to go, he does not want to leave, he does not want to be one of the elves that may have to bring us down into terrible ruin if we do not return in time. He says nothing but I see it all there quite plainly upon his face, and I smile at him.

"It will be well my friend," I reassure him, and neither of us fully believes it. "It is worth it. Even should we not return, you will see your prince again one day."

But I will not. If all goes badly I will not see any of them again, and it hangs in the air as though it had been spoken aloud. All know it.

I clear my throat loudly and I straighten. I will return – we both will. We are wasting time and I look to Lord Ionwë now with a fire in my belly and an impatience for this tarrying about.

"I am leaving now to help my friend," I tell him. "I would ask that you do as I have bid. I cannot force you, I know that, but I ask it. We have only one chance to do this right – do not waste all that we have done here because you do not trust a dwarf."

And I am gone, and if I am blinded a moment by tears that spring from nowhere that I understand then I do not let them stop me. I fear for Almárean, I fear for all of my friends and I hope to see them again but if I do not, I have done well in this life. If all I have done and fought and learned amount to this night, and I am to meet my end keeping this Shadow from inflicting even a moment of pain upon another being then I have done well. I will fight with my friend, for I cannot imagine any better person to have at my side.

~{O}~

I break into a run and I do not stop to see whether those at my back do as I ask, I can only trust that they do. I have no time left to spend in persuasion any longer – if they remain then another solution must be found and I do not know if I will be the one to find it.

I take a moment to find a pyre that still burns with a flame and retrieve a brand from its heart. It is this that I use to get past the spiders. I am running as fast as I am able with every muscle and nerve and sinew in my body screaming at me to halt, to cease, to take rest if only for a moment but I do not. Another spider has fallen, they are only two and they are miserable and ragged creatures now that shy away from the flames that I bear. I race past them and now I can see my friend again, now that there are no milling and battling monsters in my way I can see clearly where he is, and I am relieved to see he is still at his feet.

It takes me little time to reach him. I am to his side and cast the brand from me so that my eyesight is not ruined by the light of it. I take my place before him and bring my axe to bear as Legolas droops a moment to one knee: he is gasping, exhausted, but still has the breath to berate me.

"Did you stop to admire the trees along the way?" he demands. I feel his glare boring into my neck but I do not turn to meet it.

"I may have been here sooner were elves not so stubborn," I tell him. "How have you spent your time?"

"In no way at all, from the look of it," he tells me wryly. He is back upon his feet and at my side, and we both stand facing the Shadow which watches us with an empty, cold curiosity that chills me to the bone. "It bears no mark or any sign of weariness no matter how I have led it a dance."

He sounds frustrated and I can understand it. One question is answered though – it is as impervious to our blows as the ragged woman was. I do not understand this creature… I do not understand how its hosts are chosen nor what causes some to be vulnerable to harm and others not. I do not understand, but I do not wish to. I wish simply for it to be gone.

"It smells awful," Legolas brushes his nose with the back of one hand, his knives gripped tightly, and I take a moment to fix him with a disbelieving look.

"_That_ is your greatest concern?" I ask him.

"If you had senses better than a lump of clay and could smell it as I can, it would be of great concern to you also," he sniffs archly back at me. "In any case, what other feature would you pick to complain of right now? There are many… choose one."

He is right. The thing before us is foul now; I am closer than I was when we first spied it and I wish that I were not so close – I do not wish to see such walking decay and corruption watching me as closely as it does. I have seen bodies after a battle that have lain bloating in the sun for days, I have seen dead things and I have built up a regretful but necessary tolerance for such things. Never before had I ever thought that I might need to battle such a creature: a walking corpse animated by an ancient Shadow from the deepest places in the earth. It hates me, I know that, but for a moment it watches us in stillness.

It has learned much of late. It has learned from all of its hosts, and now the look in its eyes is different; there is an awareness there that was not present before. It looked at us once with the eyes of a hundred spiders and it was cold and curious, but it was the curiosity of a snake for its prey: mindless. Now it looks at us with intelligence, with a knowing if not an understanding.

"I heard Idhren cry out," Legolas speaks as the Shadow takes a step to the left and we mirror it with one to the right. "Is he well?"

"He is well," I tell him. It is not a lie, and I do not wish him distracted. "There are no injuries that cannot be healed, keep your mind on us."

I try to take my own advice but a part of me cannot help but listen with one ear to what happens to our right. I can still hear the battle with the spiders and I do not know how many are yet to be destroyed or whether Faelwen is gone already with the archers and the wounded. I do not know how Lord Ionwë fares with his men depleted so greatly, I can only hope that they are victorious in time. We cannot do a thing with this Shadow other than be toyed with until all of its parts are returned to it – there is little point burying it within a hillside if a spider yet walks with a part of the Shadow inside. I wonder if an hour is long enough. I wonder whether Legolas could hear our conversation over the din, whether he knows how little time we have. I cannot tell him now, not with the Shadow here with us.

I hear Legolas take in a gasp and see him stumble from the peripheral of my vision but I do not turn to look at him, my eyes are fixed on the walking corpse before us whose eyes are fixed in turn upon my friend.

"Legolas - ?" I query fearfully. He is free of it… he told us he was free of it!

"Do not let it turn your attention," he tells me through gritted teeth, and it feels as though I am being heartily reprimanded for all of the anger in his tone. "It tries, but there is not enough of it left in me to take hold. It wishes to speak. It is unpleasant indeed but it will not gain purchase again this night, I swear it to you!"

"I believe it," I promise him. I see the Shadow twist its vile face in an expression of hatred and frustration and instead it seeks to speak with the damaged, corrupted throat and vocal chords left to it in the host it wears. It chokes upon the words and they fall and tumble free like gobbets of flesh – wet and barely comprehensible.

"_Ú-chenion," _it chokes out, and no longer do I care for a moment whether it understands us or not. It does not excuse for a moment what it has done.

"Neither do you seek to understand, and that is why we must stop you," I tell it simply. It tries, again it tries to speak but the host is too damaged, it cannot manage the words and so it looks to Legolas again. This time he stammers but does not falter; it is speaking to him and I do not know what to do to stop it. I do not know how it manages this if he tells me that it is gone from him. Never will he be entirely cured of this link he has with the Shadow and I can only hope that once we are done this night it will matter not at all.

"It does not wish to go back," he tells me. "It will leave us here in peace if we vow not to pursue it."

I take heart from it. The beast fears us. We have defied it and fought it and we have come through all it has wrought to this place now – I do not believe that it thought we would ever be so tenacious nor so difficult to best.

"Mean you to hear even a moment more of its bargaining?" I ask Legolas, and this time I spare a moment to glance at him. My friend has shed his weariness for this moment and I see him grin past the blood on his face, his face ghoulish white and his eyes fever bright. It makes him look frightening.

"After the pain it has put me through? After all it has done to my friends? Not for a heartbeat longer – the fear I feel from it does me well indeed. We were there at the beginning Gimli, it is good that we are here to end this."

And we are done waiting. We attack the Shadow as one: a single dancing assassin and one who bears all of the immoveable strength of the mountain. It watches us come, its face twists again in furious hatred and it shrieks its war cry as we attack.

~{O}~

The battle we fight with the Shadow has been a long time in coming, I will say it truly. Always before we have battled its spiders or the battle has been fought within us. I have fought it briefly, but back then we did not know one another. Now there is much history between us and much at stake: for the Shadow it no longer fights for revenge – although this is a part of it – but rather it fights to remain free. For us it is our last chance to ensure it does not walk another night upon Arda and to finally be free of it ourselves. We will see the dawn without the weight of this darkness upon us or we will not see it at all. There is much at stake for us all, and the fight seems oddly more personal for it.

I do not underestimate the Shadow and its host, for I have done so before and been much at a disadvantage for it. I know that this host is much decayed but I expect nothing more than speed and dexterity and strength, and this is what I find myself up against. I am ready for it and I shed all the weariness that I am able to, I focus only on this fight and I find myself falling into the razor sharp focus of mind that comes upon a warrior during battle. I feel nothing but the fire in my blood, the axe in my hand and the constant urge in my heart that I must be victorious. There is the knowledge that I do this to protect not only myself, but those I hold dearest: what should it reach Erebor? What then? What should it find its way out of Lasgalen and move on to Rohan and the friends I have there? What should it reach Minas Tirith or even the Shire… all could be lost. I will not imagine it, I will not know defeat. I will win this battle, for I am steadfast as the rock beneath me and I have my friend here beside me. Mountain and green leaf, we fight together for we are stronger side by side.

Legolas and I fight as we always fight: we know one another almost as well as the elves that have fought together for centuries untold. I do not have to look to know when he is at my side or at my back, I do not have to tell him when I need him behind the creature or when he would be best at my flank. He uses my strength as I use his speed: he sets up the Shadow and I attack it head on. I force it to stumble back and he is there to make it fall. We battle as one and I do not marvel at it nor do I even spare it a moment of thought; it is simply as it always is. But we cannot win as we are.

For all the beauty of our dance and all the efficacy of our shared movement the Shadow is impervious to harm. It scores damage upon us with those long, awful claws but we know now not to let it inflict much more than shallow scrapes that sting and bleed but do not cut too deeply. Not after what Legolas has suffered. It spreads itself like it spreads poison by those terrible claws, and if we are wary of anything it is those that we avoid the most.

I am flung from the Shadow and find myself landing heavily in damp leaves, and I take the time to look over at the other elves as I collect myself together again. One – one spider remains. I do not know how long we have left, I do not know how much time has passed since this battle with the Shadow began but it feels to me as though a thousand moons have risen and fallen. I am about to shout to Ionwë, to tell him to get himself in order and hurry for we do not have the time for him to drag his heels this way, but as I watch it is over. The last spider falls.

I see a figure that could be him pause and look over to us and I freeze – I shout to him from within my mind, from within my heart. He mustn't come! He must go as I have asked! Will he do so: will he trust me and leave? I do not think my heart beats for a moment whilst I watch him standing there, silhouetted against the moody red remains of one of the pyres. He watches us, and then a decision is made. He calls to his men and then they are gone, running into the trees like ghosts. We are now alone.

I hear Legolas call to me and I am up, running back into the battle. Now we can do more than just play – or be played with – now we can look to end this. Now is our chance!

TBC

* * *

Translations:

_"Nan aear ar in alin!" - _by the sea and the stars!

_"Baw... Avon cared" - _No... I won't do it

___"Ve thorthol" - _we are yours to command (formal)

_____"Ú-chenion" - _I do not understand

**Eep! So, two chapters to go but you may rest assured that after much playing and tinkering, those two chapters are followed by a very, very substantial epilogue indeed. Seriously. It's huge. **

**Next week, Gimli and Legolas finally fight the Shadow to the death. Whose, we shall find out. ****It's been rather a long time coming, so let's see what happens to the lads. I think they're running on some fairly spent luck by now, and all luck eventually runs out!**

**I was planning on posting the Epilogue fairly close to the final chapter, and I've just worked out that the final chapter is actually due to go up on my birthday weekend, so lets have a double celebration. I'll post the final chapter on the Friday, the Epilogue on the Sunday and you can all send me wonderful reviews that will take my mind off the fact that I am turning 30. It actually seems to be happening, nothing I've done has managed to stop it and so I need the distraction. Think of them as Birthday ePresents!**

**Anyway, that's quite enough. As always, you guys are wonderful and thank you all for the reviews. Thanks in particular to one particular Guest - they of the fabulously long reviews - who you can all thank for a far more rounded Shadow in the final chapter. I won't point out which bit of which review prompted this comment because I don't want to ruin anything, but thank you nonetheless. **

**Have a wonderful weekend, and those of us in the UK I would like to point out that big burning yellow thing in the sky that has appeared today. What is that?**

**See you next week.**

**MyselfOnly**


	14. Chapter 14

I do not need to tell Legolas that the Shadow is now whole, I believe that he senses it. I tell him anyway. I mutter it beneath my breath knowing that he is attuned to me and hears me, and I see him nod the briefest of movements, his face grim and eager. Now our focus is upon movement… we are in the wrong place for this.

We try – by Eru we try – to move our fight toward the incline not a hundred paces behind us, but the Shadow is becoming suspicious. It casts its glance to the battlefield where its spiders lie low but no elves remain. It shrieks and cries, but I hear something else within that sound: for the first time I hear doubt. It knows we are about something but it knows not what, and I take great heart from the fact that it did not glean our plan from Legolas' mind. He has held onto it so tightly that it could not rip it free from him, but it is no longer a mindless thing. It knows we do something; it knows that we seek to lead it, and it will not be led.

"We run short on time!" I hiss below my breath as we seek and fail yet again to get it to follow us. I speak lowly, knowing that Legolas hears cannot respond without the Shadow overhearing him. Instead he looks to me and he does not need words with which to speak; he fixes me with a look and I hear him as clearly as though he had spoken aloud.

'_Trust me,'_ he says, and after a moment I reply:

'_Always, I trust you,'_ and in that moment he drops his knives to his side. I do not know what he is doing, I do not know his plan but I must be ready for whatever it is.

The Shadow screams again and I am alarmed by the victory that I hear in the sound, then horror stricken as Legolas sinks to his knees. After a moment his hands also fall to the leaves at our feet, his hair a shadow about his face and he cries aloud… he is letting it in again!

I see it happening – I see the Shadow begin to leave the child. I see it move about her like I saw it in that dank and dark dungeon all those weeks and months ago. It moves like a drop of ink in water, it eddies and writhes within the air and any doubt or confusion that the Shadow may have had are wiped away. It no longer thinks or wonders on what we do, all thought is wiped clean as it tastes the touch of the host it likes the best. It sees a way in, but it thinks not a moment on the fact that it is being allowed so. It is blinded to it.

It takes everything I have not to try to stop this. I bite my tongue and I taste copper, I grip my axe tightly enough to feel pain in my hand but I root my feet into the ground and I take strength from the Song of the earth… I bide my time. I must trust in him, I must!

It is moments or years, I do not know. I cannot feel the passage of time any longer, although had I mind to I could count out every deafening beat of my heart. I watch my friend but I do not move, and it is exquisite agony to stay as I am. I trust in him. I trust in him better than I trust in myself and so I stand aside, a useless lump of graceless dwarf as my friend battles alone.

He allows it a taste, but a taste only. A great cry of rage and refusal is ripped from my friend and he is staggering to his feet again, his hair still tangled about his face. He looks to the Shadow with veiled eyes like flint… he grins, and it is chilling.

"If you wish it, you must take it," he hisses at the beast and it shrieks – by the mountains and the stars does it shriek. I feel my bones ready to splinter, my ears feel as though shards pierce them and I feel the terror that has always been stirred by the cry of the Shadow. It is angrier than it has been in a long while; Legolas has torn its victory away, he has closed himself off to it again after allowing just a taste of what it wishes. I know not where he has found the strength for such a thing, but we have its attention and it is blinded now by avarice. It thinks no longer on what we do – now it sees only what it wants.

We run, and it follows.

"That was extremely foolish, you idiot elf," I tell him through gritted teeth as we run. He makes no reply other than to grin at me and that makes me all the angrier with him, but I have no time to make more of it. We are pursued, and the Shadow is swift.

We fly through the forest with no thought to anything but speed; we know where we must be at the end of this but how we find ourselves there is secondary to the matter. I am weary and I trip and stumble, but there is a constant grip at my back hauling me over difficult ground. It is a strange sensation – akin to flying – but I concentrate on nothing but that which chases us.

For such a short distance it is as though a thousand leagues pass beneath my feet. Ever there is the constant, skin crawling sensation of corrupted breath upon my neck… of a clawed hand ready to grab at me at any moment. It is behind us – so close behind us – but I am unmolested the whole way. I hear it, I know that it chases but always we are a breath ahead.

We are safe until we reach the hillside, it is only then that things go awry. I see the ground falling away before me: I see the tangle of bramble and briar way below us, the loose soil and loam caught in tree roots all the way toward the ravine. I see it and I feel a moment of hope that we are so close, but then my legs are gone from beneath me.

I feel claws at my legs - I trip and I feel myself carried onward by the speed of my flight, and it is as though I am flying again. This time my stomach lurches with the sensation as I fall headlong over the edge, plummeting down the hillside with no one there to halt my fall and no control over myself. I know what meets me there at the bottom of the hillside, and so I claw and scrabble and catch at whatever I am able. I will not meet my end this way!

I am scratched and bruised by my fall, but as my hands claw for purchase I eventually find my tumble arrested by a tree that has grown these many years in the tenuous hold of the hillside. My breath is stricken from me as I hit it, I see dancing lights that flare and glimmer but as I wheeze and struggle for breath I look up. I have fallen a long way, a long way indeed and I see Legolas silhouetted against the night sky. He fights to give me a moment to regain myself - he fights with all he has but he is alone, and he is swiftly losing whatever strength he has left to him now. We have little time, so little time left to us. It must be now… now or it will never happen.

"Send it from the edge, Legolas!" I cry, and if I have trusted him blindly before then he does the same for me now. He does not hesitate, he lets it rush to him and he is a ghost, melting beneath it so that it falls across his back and over the edge. I do not look to what he does but rather to the fall of the Shadow, and it rolls and tumbles down the incline much as I have. It falls, and with every part of me I will it to fall right to the end of things, but it does not. It catches itself a few feet below me upon a protruding root.

Much passes through my mind now. The edge of the ravine is so close but the brambles act as a barrier: even should it fall it would find itself caught by such a tangle of growth. We are close – so close!

I see my friend far above me and I see that he has driven himself far past the point where he should have stopped. He is burning strength he has not had for days, he moves on willpower alone and if he is able to push through such fear and weariness then how can I not? How can I quail at this? How can I be the one that pauses in fear at this moment; this when all may be resolved if I can find but one ounce of the strength he has carried for days and days behind us.

I see it there... the Shadow. Already it has started the long and interminable climb back up again. I make a decision, and I trust in my friend more than I have ever trusted in him before.

I launch myself free of the tree that holds me so carefully in its grasp. I jump free and I fall again, but this time I have a goal. I hear the elf cry my name but there is not a single thing I can do now but fall. And so I fall.

I crash into the Shadow and I grip and claw and hold onto its stinking, corrupted flesh as though it is the only thing in the world. My weight is greater than this poor, forgotten child that it wears like clothing. I break it free… we fall now together.

We fall down a hillside that smells of damp leaves and pine needles. I feel my skin torn and bruised, I feel the earth and the air spinning and tumbling about me. All is confusion, and although I fear those poisoned claws the Shadow is oddly silent. It falls as I do, too confused with the sense of falling to make a sound, and together we break through the brambles. We plunge through briar with the speed of our descent, and for a moment I feel nothingness about me.

It is a strange sensation indeed, to fly. I am gone into the dark places and air and silence are about me, darkness greets me and I am to meet my end in a way fitting for a dwarf, but I have placed my trust wisely indeed. My arm is torn, my hand feels as though it is broken in half, my fall is arrested and I have been here before.

I dangle above a precipice and I look to find Legolas there upon the solid ground above me, gripping my hand as though his entire world is focussed upon this moment. I feel the cold wind channelled by the ravine buffeting me, I am surrounded by a Song that sings of great depth beneath but I see only Legolas. I swing freely in his grasp and I see the pain upon him: he has fought valiantly with his knives but his hands are a ruin. It stops him not at all. My eyes seek his out and they tell me:

"_I will never let you fall," _and I believe him, by Eru I believe him completely but it is not just my weight that he holds. I feel a grip upon my leg just as I feel the grip upon my hand.

I look down and the Shadow clings to my leg, dangling with me above this precipice. I see it looking up at me; I am fixed by a hungry, hate filled gaze and all of a moment I am seized with panic that wipes my mind of any coherent thought. I fight, I kick and I twist my body to be free of it. Legolas cries with pain from the way I am treating the hand that holds me but I am blinded to it: never has fear had such a hold on me, I am desperate to be free of the Shadow's touch. I kick and kick and I kick at its grip: my boot meets the face of the poor child whose body it wears, and forever will I see the look it gives me.

It is afraid… so desperately afraid. It does not wish to fall into the earth again, it wishes to walk in the sunlight as all living things have a wish to do but some mercies cannot be given, some things must not be allowed. I feel pity but I do not wish to, and so I allow the revulsion to take me over. I bury the feeling, I bury it deep behind the horror and fear and exhaustion it has caused, and I continue to fight.

Finally I strike true – finally I kick it hard enough to break the hold it has upon my leg. I feel my flesh tear but I am free, it is gone: it falls into the ravine with a shriek that echoes loudly enough to cause my grip upon Legolas to weaken and falter. I feel his other hand grasp me just as strongly as the first and I am safe... I am blinded and confused, I do not know what happens but I am safe. The Shadow has gone into the earth. It has fallen and we are victorious.

I am ready to fall and lie just as I have fallen, to finally rest, but it is not over. I wish it was… I wish this was all required of us because I am spent. There is not a single ounce of strength left to me right now but once again I must trust in my friend. It is over, yet it is not. The Shadow is fallen, but we must yet live.

~{O}~

Legolas hauls me up over the ridge and back onto solid ground, but I recall little of the journey. I lie and feel my breath rasping into my lungs – suddenly I feel every bruise and cut and hurt I have sustained this night. My leg has been torn, my hip… I am fairly sure that my ribs are broken from my varied flights into trees. My head is bruised, my hand is in splinters and every muscle in my body screams for release, for rest.

I hear my ears singing and my eyes blur, but it fades and resolves into a fair voice calling my name. It sounds angry with me.

"I cannot carry you," he tells me. He is vexed. "You must be up! I will drag your dwarven carcass if I must but I will be intentionally neglectful if you make me do this… to your feet, Gimli!"

I groan mightily, and it is the sound a child makes when roused from their bed of a cold morning. It is childish and I feel shame, but it does not stop my response from being less than graceful.

"Do not hound me so!" I snap, but I am already swaying to my feet. He helps me. "I am getting far too long in the tooth for this business."

He snorts. I know well enough the difference in our years but they do not show on him as they do on me – I believe my point has credence. Nevertheless when we move away from the ravine I shake free of his support and totter my own way back through briars that suddenly seem far thicker and more impenetrable than they did. I curse and swear my way free, and then we are climbing back up the hill. I recall how easily I climbed this incline with Idhren earlier on this night – now it is a veritable mountain!

"We have little time left to us," Legolas tells me, and although it is good to know that he overheard our plan it is very unhelpful of him to be commenting so. I am well aware of the time left to us – I do not need his reminders.

"I can move no faster," I grit through my teeth. "Know you even the length of an hour? Do elves count time in such small numbers?"

"Perhaps you should have made doubly certain if you had such doubts," he replies archly. "In any case, you are being very unpleasant. I am weary too."

I bite off my next retort and focus only on our climb. I do not know why but it makes me feel endlessly better to focus my exhaustion into ill feeling toward him – after all of these days of him moving by the sheer power of his will alone, why then does he still outlast me? The mountains themselves will fall before I allow an elf to show me to be a weakling, and so I swear and curse and berate him beneath my breath, and I climb.

The hillside slides and shifts beneath my feet. It is an uncertain quicksand of settled leaves upon roots and sinking pine needles that do not hold my weight, but the elf grabs me by my jerkin, hauling me up places too steep for me to find purchase. I snap at him every time, but every time he is there to help me. He knows that my ill temper is born of pain and exhaustion, and so he hears not a word of my complaint.

I do not look at him. It is selfishness itself but despite how it aggravates me I need his strength at my side to keep my mind focussed, to bolster my own waning determination. If I see him now then I will see how little there is left in him to give, and I know I will falter. I keep my eyes trained ahead of me, and I continue.

When we trip and fall over the crest of the hill I am given no moment to catch my breath. I stumble and trip to my knees but again, there is a hand at my back and I am pressed forward. I do not run any longer, I stumble and stagger but it is movement and it is all that I can muster. My legs scream at me, my lungs heave and dark shadows dance before my eyes but I carry on. It is half a mile – just half a mile to the rallying point.

"You must lead us Gimli," Legolas tells me. "I know not where we go."

"Westward," I tell him, and I close my ears to how fragile his voice sounds. I close my eyes and ears to anything from him that would suggest he is anything but stronger than I am, and we continue onward. Past guttering, smouldering pyres that are all but gone out. Past dead spider after dead spider, curled and empty shells that litter the forest floor and befoul the air. Past the giant mounds of their monstrous kin, and then we are past them all. The sky lightens, daylight approaches. For a moment I allow myself to hope, to imagine that perhaps we might make it, but then Legolas speaks my name and the dread I hear in his voice stops me dead in my tracks.

I stop, wheezing and gasping. I look to the dark sky where a thousand burning arrows stream silently above our heads.

They are like falling stars, like a cloudburst of flames sailing beyond us and dread chokes me. I watch them fly as though mesmerised – it is a beautiful sight – and the elf stands beside me. I look to him now and I see past the hurt and pain, I see beyond the blood and filth. His head is tilted to the sky as it ever is, filled with wonder. Always he seems to be looking beyond us, and I cannot ever imagine what the world looks like to him. He sees his stars lit up in flames and when he turns his regard back to me there is fear in his eyes, but there is also a fire to rival anything we are about to witness.

"Care to wager that I can beat you the last of the way?" he asks with a hint of his usual mirth, and I cannot help but shake my head in disbelief. I laugh, for how else can I respond to such insanity?

I do not hear the moment that the vapours within the ravine catch afire but I feel it. The ground beneath me lurches and there is a moment when the Song of Mahal twists and shrieks in my heart: decrying what we have done here, railing against the damage we do. The ground heaves and I take a moment to glance behind me, but it is only a moment. Legolas grabs me and shoves me: we are running again but I cannot wipe the image from my mind.

There is a wall of fire behind us: higher than the trees, a half mile long quite easily. I can feel the heat as it pushes against my back, carried by a mighty wind hotter than any fire. It is as furious as the heart of Orodruin itself! I hear a great roaring: a rending and a tearing sound like the cry of some mighty beast let loose upon us – the forges of Mahal burning upon the soils of Arda right at our very backs.

The conflagration travels through the rock; the gas still held within the hillside is thinned enough to catch flame, and as the land splits and air floods this gas filled honeycomb of pockets the inferno only grows in might. We have certainly succeeded in our task… but perhaps we have been overly enthusiastic.

Legolas stumbles and is almost to his knees for a moment – he gasps and his hands cover his ears but it is not the sound of the exploding hillside behind him that has him so stricken. He looks to me and I see a flicker of the true damage the Shadow has done to him: the staining upon his fëa, the horror of all he has known these last days.

"It screams, Gimli. I hear it… it burns!"

"Then you must close your ears," I instruct him, and I am careful not to show anything of the horror his words instil within me. I cannot think on it. Not yet, and not now. I pull him to his feet as he has been pulling me to mine – oh, how we switch and change between us – and although I know he hears it still he follows as pliant as a child. His face is pinched and haunted but he runs. My weariness is pushed aside; I find strength where I thought no strength could be found. I cannot find rest if I am not fast enough: we will be caught… we must be quicker!

We race one another and I hear Legolas choking upon the smell – if it is noxious to me then truly it must be foul to him. As I hear the rending and shrieking of the Song of Mahal then he hears the fading and dying of the life that burns behind us, but we must close our hearts to our respective Songs. We must run all the faster, for the land has begun to pitch. What once was flat ground is now a hill as the land collapses, this half mile upon which we run sinks now into the yawning chasm we have created.

There is a part of my heart that sings… it cries and it challenges the Shadow to scrabble its way free from _this_ grave but I push it away. I will first make sure that it is not my own grave as well. There will be time enough after this for celebration: first I must see this sunrise upon kinder ground and I intend to – by stone and stars do I intend to. I run onward and Legolas races beside me, determined to outrun the cries of the burning Shadow.

As we flee – as the trees about us begin to collapse and the hillside falls in pockets about our flight I remember another such desperate race. I do not know why the thought has come to me but I remember a mountain that was almost our tomb up in the Hithaeglir. I recall it clearly, but although it was similar that flight was the start of our nightmare, and this one at the very end. Did we escape that mountain only to be swallowed by this? I think not. I _know_ not.

It is there, I see it! I see fires ahead of us that are not of this conflagration. I see them as a faint glimmer in the distance but it is a distance I can measure, it is an end, it is so close!

"Legolas!" I cry, but of course he has seen it. Our efforts double but we are not swift enough – we have been too slow. We have not outraced this destruction.

I both feel and hear a sound equally. It sounds deep in my blood where I hear the Song, but I would have both felt and heard it whether I was attuned to the call of Mahal or not. This is the air concussing, this is my very bones vibrating and both Legolas and I stagger as a steady series of explosions shake our footing. Something has caught – one pocket of gas has caught another, and then another racing faster than ever we could. The trees to our right creak and lurch and fall with a mighty crashing sound, fire plumes up even higher than they ever stood and the only air available to breathe is hot and fetid. The land lurches, dips, and then begins to rise.

Legolas is too graceful to fall and I am too solid, but we are nearly tipped from our footing. I look about and we are surrounded by ground that is being swallowed into itself; we are lit angry red by the fire that rises high into the sky and steals the air. I turn toward our refuge, and what I see has my fists tightly wrapped in my friend's shirt.

There… right where the stone is too impenetrable to harbour a single shred of vapour. There is the point to which we are headed. I drag him onward again.

The land is splitting. We may reach safety but be trapped on the wrong side of a divide as the hillside sinks, and I cannot imagine surviving this ordeal all of the way through only to fail so close to our destination. Legolas has seen what has me so panicked and says nothing, but now we are running up a far steeper incline and he needs the breath, for he has none left to him.

Steeper, steeper it rises… the land breaks away about us and we are surrounded by flames. Soil and stones fall about us in a river, trees and undergrowth are torn from their roots and then we crest this mighty hill. We crest it, but although it has slowed it moves still. We balance now on the very edge of what once was perfectly flat ground, our feet braced upon the shifting soil and the scar of sundered stone. It is all I can do to keep my balance as the hillside sinks, but the flames recede and I can see our destination. I can see it… we are there!

I cannot jump the distance.

Legolas looks at me in readiness, his eyes feverish and eager in a face marble white beneath the blood and dirt. May Eru bless his elven heart he does not realise. He does not understand the limitations of mortals at times, but this crack in the earth is too far… I cannot jump it. Perhaps if I were less weary, less hurt. Perhaps if my body did not sing and cry so with every movement – perhaps if I were fresh upon the road then I might in a fit of insanity attempt it. I go to look down to see what would greet me at the end of such a fall, but my friend grabs at my arm. The strength of his grip is enough to draw a gasp from me and I look instead to him – he does not wish me to know what lies beneath us. His eyes tell me so.

'_You do not wish to see,'_ he tells me, and I trust him in this. I can imagine it well enough.

We are still sinking. The gap widens interminably. I turn my attention briefly to the other side of this open barrier – it is jagged and sloped, not a clean cut at all. We stand upon an overhang which makes the footing seem even more tenuous to me.

"Can you make it?" I ask him, and he assesses the distance with a look I have seen him use before. He measures himself just as critically.

"Any other time, aye, I could jump this without a second thought but now? Now I do not know. I will never know if I do not try it."

I see before me the elfling that Almárean has told me about: the one who would never be told he could not do something without the trial of it first. He is right; neither of us will know anything past this if we do not try. We will stand here until we sink into the flames, and if we jump and fall into fire and ruin then at least we will have died in a bid to live. It is no fitting end for me, too timid to save myself, and so I steel my heart.

"I won, in case you were too distracted to note it," I tell him. He looks blankly at me and so I clarify: "I beat you here."

"Of course you did not," he snorts in horror. "Dwarves do not win at races against elves; you must not have been paying proper attention."

"I have been paying very close attention to everything these past hours, and dwarves can quite easily beat elves. It is easier still when they are half dead."

He mutters something beneath his breath and looks down at the conflagration deep beneath us just as he stopped me from doing. I did not think he could grow any paler.

"Legolas," I say to him softly, catching his attention. He stills and looks up, surprised at my tone, and I take a deep breath. I grip at his arm, he meets my gaze and understands what I am to suggest. I cannot find the words though.

'_Together… we jump,' _I say to him, and he smiles to me. It is small, but his whole face softens and lights with it.

'_Together, my friend,'_ he answers to me.

And so we jump.

TBC

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**They've done it! They've only actually gone and done it (probably) aaaaand then promptly jumped off a cliff. Frying pans and fires, boys. **

**So anyway, we're nearly there. The Shadow is finally dead (probably) and now we just have to find out if and how the guys survive this. We shall do so next week, followed just two days later by the epilogue where we sort out the aftermath. All sorts of angsty angst will be had. Buckets of it. **

**I'd really like it if this story could go out with a bit of a bang rather than a whimper, so even if you're not a usual reviewer and still aren't planning on reviewing this week (please?) then what would make this whole thing worthwhile is a big response next week. For all of you who have read and lurked but not popped your head up, you wouldn't believe the difference it makes by just typing a few lines in that box at the bottom down there. I'd love it if this creature that has taken over my life could get a bit of a fond farewell. Also, it'll be my birthday. Which I know I've mentioned before but I figure the more I say it, the more used to it I'm going to get.**

**That's quite enough out of me anyway. Thanks to my usual reviewers and my guests, I hope you have a brilliant weekend and I'll see you next week for the last two chapters!**

**MyselfOnly**


	15. Chapter 15

There was a time once, as a much younger dwarf, that I was almost lost before my time ever really started.

I was beardless and foolhardy, and wished very much to impress a young dwarf maiden who often ran with my friends and I. She was as strong as an ox and had hair that shone like burnished copper. She was kind and her singing voice was louder than that of any other, and I had thought for a very long time to make her my wife. But then time got the better of us just as all things do, and when the call came to Rivendell for a meeting I was to attend with my father, that Gimli was gone.

Back then I had thought to show my prowess and bravery by attempting a jump that we all knew to be too far for us. We were deep in the caverns of the mountains, deep where none knew us to be and I fell. I fell long into the darkness of the world, away from life and light, and I have never felt such a lonely fear. I remember now the sense of it as Legolas and I leap, and I know now just as I did then that we are not going to make it.

For a time it is as though we might: perhaps a week or two ago we may have, but there is little left to us now. We have no strength to our limbs, we cannot reach such a far ledge in the ragged state we are in and so we fall – away from the promise of friends and safety, and with none knowing to come to our aid we are lost into the pit. We fall far indeed, but not so far as I had imagined and when our fall is arrested it is unforgiving stone that greets us, and not the inferno I had imagined.

We fall hard, and I know nothing past it.

~{O}~

I regain myself once or twice before I can cling to it. I rise and fall beneath the waves, I know myself and am lost again. I float upon a tide of Song and memory and there is no time nor pain, no fear nor exhaustion. I have been plagued for so long by such a terrible weariness that it is an unusual feeling to be rid of it, but as all things do it passes and I come to myself again.

When I awake it is to darkness as thick as velvet, and for a time I wonder if my eyes are truly open. I blink and my dwarven eyes resolve some sense of my surroundings, but it is a sense only: there is no definition to the world I find myself in. This is not the darkness of night: there are no stars nor moon here but I know this darkness – it is the deep dark of Arda's heart. I shift, and my whole body sings with hurt. Ai, how I wish I had stayed still!

I hear my breath hiss over my teeth and I groan, but I force myself into some movement. I test my body: each muscle and bone and sinew I shift and test and I catalogue the damage. I am cuts and bruises aplenty – I lose track and count of those quickly enough – but the places I learn to have most care for are lesser in number. There is the gouge in my hip that the Shadow scored with Legolas' blade, my ribs are broken and there is another rip in my side from my fall against a tree. My head sings, and although I know nothing has broken there it is most certainly aggrieved with me. Then there is my shoulder – it is dislocated – and I am unsure as to whether my knee is broken or wrenched. I settle for leaving it alone for the time being… I have enough to be worried over for now.

"Legolas?" I call, and cough. My voice is hoarse and my tongue thick in my mouth. The air is acrid down here: there are no longer any flames – the gas is burned or escaped now – but it is harsh against my throat. I get no response and so I call again.

"I am here, Gimli," I hear a voice. It is close, but it is faint. I feel about me for a moment and he must hear some of it, and so he speaks:

"We are upon a ledge – there is room enough. It drops again perhaps ten feet before you and we have much space either side. You will not fall."

He is barely a whisper in the darkness, and I push myself upright then back to lean against the rock wall. The movement sets my body aflame and I curse and grit my way through the ordeal, then sit gasping once I am done.

"How do you fare?" he asks. His voice is closer now – he is sat just as I am. I think upon the complaining, thrilling aches and hurts that steal my breath from me. I hold my dislocated arm close and I have not yet decided what my knee is about.

"I am fine," I tell him. "How are you?"

"I am also well," he tells me. I snort. I can hear the smile in his tone and I know that he is as far from fine as I am. I would roll my eyes, but he cannot see it and I think it might hurt. My eyes are perhaps the only uninjured part of me right now.

"In truth?" I ask.

"In truth," he confirms. And so I tell him. He listens to my catalogue of woes without a word and when I am done there is a short beat of silence before he speaks in which I am suddenly very aware of the dark.

"I will say nothing on my utter weariness, although it is perhaps worthy of note, and my hands are becoming more trouble than they are worth. All else is cuts and bruises, although we share an ailment – my ribs are also broken."

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. It is not a sigh, not at all.

I have seen what Legolas classes as 'cuts and bruises'. He perhaps forgets that I could see him quite clearly not much long passed. When last I saw him he was leaking blood as though he had an overabundance of the stuff, but I do not argue. Legolas has been through much; what he classes as an injury of import is either much skewed by his tolerance or he is trying to retain some semblance of dignity. I can forgive him for his reluctance to share after I have seen so much of what he would class as weakness… it is no reflection on his trust in me.

"I said that I could not make the jump." I say, and am unsurprised when the only reply I get is silence. I turn to look at Legolas but I can see him no better now than I could to begin with; he is a dark grey shadow at best, a hint of movement in the dark. I know from the soft scuff of skin and fabric against stone that he is sat down, and I know from the wheeze of his breath and his stillness that he is hurt from the fall and trying to hide it.

"If we are left down here to starve then I will get no sustenance from as scrawny a thing as you are; I should have befriended a meatier elf."

"Gimli, please!" he huffs. "What is this mood? I see no humour in this situation."

"Ah but I see nothing _but_ humour, Legolas. Through all we have endured and fought through these last weeks and months, our safe haven is perhaps twenty feet skyward and we have no way to reach it. If not humorous, what would you call this?"

He sighs greatly and does not reply. It is the sigh of a parent whose child has not learned to still their tongue when the situation calls for quiet. I give up at any attempt at levity and I shift closer beside him, our shoulders touching in the dark. It is the only real comfort we can grant one another.

"Can you hear it still?" I ask him. He is uncomfortable with the closeness of the stone; I can hear it in the hitch in his breath. He cannot yet see how close the rock is around us but he can hear it in the echoes when we talk. It is as black as pitch down here but there is a patch of sky above us and it lightens, the dawn is here, but it will be long before any light touches us down in this darkness.

"Aye," he nods, his voice very soft. "Not so loud any more, but I hear it screaming still."

"Then take heart," I take a deep breath. "It will give you something to focus on when the sea-longing next takes you!"

"_Gimli!"_

"Apologies."

I shift again. I am uncomfortable. My hurts ache and stab at me and I cannot find a single position in which they are all relieved; I sit like this and my back aches not at all but my ribs are aflame. I sit this way, my knee is eased but my shoulder shrieks and complains foully. I settle on a position far lower than I have been, slumped against the rock and I find each breath more difficult, each beat of my heart more fitful than the last. I do not know how much longer I can endure this.

Legolas reaches out and rests his hand upon my chest, and the contact grounds me. I fall still and take a steadying breath.

"Can it be climbed?" I ask lowly. He shakes his head – I feel the movement through our contact but then he is gone again. I know I cannot climb it, I am asking if he can.

"In a few days, when I am better healed then perhaps," he tells me. "But I do not believe we will be up to much in a few hours, let alone days. I have whistled myself breathless down here whilst you were sleeping, if any are within earshot then the stone muffles the sound."

"Then I have fought a very long battle to keep you from being buried alive, only to find ourselves here regardless at the end of it. If I ever see the Lady Galadriel again then I will be having words indeed for not having mentioning this in her letter."

He snorts a laugh, and then gasps with the pain of it. I hear him huff in frustration and from the sound I know his head is tilted up to try and glimpse the stars.

"My father is going to be vexed with me," he sighs. "He has said often that he may have done better with a daughter… or perhaps a dog instead. I say now my friend, should we ever get ourselves free of this we should go straight to Minas Tirith and spend no more time in this wood than we are able. It would be shame indeed to survive only to meet my end by the hand of my own father."

"Agreed," I confirm. "Your king has been under the delusion that I am sensible, I would hate to have to explain myself when he realises that I have been an intolerable fool all along."

I know that we speak only to keep one another grounded and awake, and that neither of us can think of a way free of this. I am grinning, and I know enough of my friend to know that he also smiles. I am becoming weary, a bad sign indeed, and I fight the sensation that my body is adrift upon water. It is unpleasant, but it is also soothing. I am so very tired.

"I wished to thank you, Gimli," Legolas speaks. His voice is soft, but it is not enough for me to pretend not to hear if I do not wish to. "I do not know what I might be now without you there at my side, I care not to think even a moment on it."

"This is not a farewell Legolas, I have told you before that I will not hear it from you."

"Nothing so tender," he promises with a smile. "I wished to thank you because there seems never the time. Ever are we in a rush, ever do we move from one peril to the next or do we make jest and slight it… there is never the time."

I still and the smile drops from my face. He is correct.

The elves are more vocal about these things. They do not grow embarrassed when they speak of friendship; they do not fear speaking of it… they are open and honest. They have lost so many without saying: 'you are my friend', and so they tell one another. Legolas understands that I am not like they are; I am embarrassed sometimes to speak of it. Dwarves do not, it is seen as weak; a trait of men and elves… flittering and fragile creatures. I am only now learning of the importance of celebrating those that you have care for, and in telling them so.

"You are welcome, Legolas." I tell him quite honestly, although I hear my tongue trip and slur now. "You are worth every step we have taken."

I reach out and grip at his arm for a moment and he rests his hand upon mine, but then we are apart again. There is something in my chest that releases and burns warmer than any sunrise or the light of any fire. There is something to be said for weakness.

After a time – minutes or hours, I cannot tell – I cannot help it, I fall into sleep. It is not true slumber; it is the darkness of mind that meets those with nothing left to give: those too exhausted and too hurt to do anything less. I drift upon dreams and memory, I see my family and my friends and I see my home. I see black things that I never thought to imagine again, things I thought long hidden away in a place too unpleasant for recounting. I am there a long time, drifting. I am feverish, I know it, and I feel things with the intensity of a fevered mind. Sensation is too harsh, colours too vivid. Memory is cruel and twisted, but always there is a part of me that knows where I am.

I know that Legolas tends to me, that my wounds are bound by the strips of cloth that once bound his own injuries. I have the presence of mind for a moment to feel a flare of irritation that even now he is awake and moving, and I know not how. How does he find the strength within himself? How, when I cannot?

There is a flare of agony for the briefest of moments and I know that my shoulder is set again, and although there is little that he can do for me his ministrations help. I sleep with my senses tied up in the gentleness of those hard hands, of the scent of him now upon me from the cloth binding my hurts. I smell the rain and the trees, the familiar scent of my friend, and I fall into easier dreams.

I hear him whistling in between my wanderings. I do not know what time has passed but I know that he does not give up. I know that he calls to his friends; I know that he calls for our rescue even when he should be drifting upon tides of his own and I should be helping him, I know I should, but I cannot. I have left him alone again. I fight it and I try to come to myself but the weight of my fevered mind pulls at me, and I am useless to him. I am flawed, I am weak… I am mortal.

He speaks to me almost constantly. Mostly he rambles: he tells me of things from his youth, he tells me the names of trees and the best place in Mirkwood to find strawberries, of which he is very fond. He tells me the correct way in which to fletch an arrow, of trade negotiations with Laketown and he tells me of his mother. It is nonsensical at times, or at least it seems so to me. Sometimes he lapses into his own tongue and I know that he must be in a bad way himself not to realise, but he continues on – his voice a lifeline that I cling to.

He speaks to ground me, to keep me from drifting too far, but he also speaks to keep himself awake. Legolas has not yet given himself permission to rest, and so he keeps watch over me. He knows that I can hear him in the same way that he often knows what I think; for one so blind at times he is sensitive to others in a way that I do not think he even realises. I hear his voice constantly as I drift upon tides of fever and pain; sometimes it is louder, sometimes softer. Sometimes I understand his words and others it is enough that I can hear him at all.

I do not know how long it has been since we have been down here; I no longer care to note the shade of the light but I know that I am thirsty beyond measure. I hear Legolas quiet for a while and I hear him say very softly:

"Awaken Gimli, _saes._ I know that it is much to ask after all you have done, but it is very dark down here. We are very far from the sky."

I hear in his voice that it is taking everything that he has to keep talking, to stay by my side in this way and it breaks my heart to hear it. I cannot, though. I cannot find myself. I ache and thrum with the need to cry out, to tell him:

'_My friend I am here, never would I leave you so alone!'_

But my body betrays me. He begins to sing and I sleep once more.

When I wake again to the softness of his voice I can tell by his tone that he does not think I can hear him any longer. I drift, taking comfort in his voice but barely hearing his words. I hear some of it and I hope that I recall this after we are free again – if we are ever free again.

"I know why it hated you so much, Gimli," he muses softly. "I know why it pursued us so relentlessly, even above its wish for an elven host. We believed that its hatred was because you burned it, because you buried it and at first I believe that was true… but I have remembered. I would give up the Song itself not to have these thoughts and memories in my mind – I am poisoned grievously for all of the rest of my days – but in the time we shared I learned much from the Shadow, and those images come to me clearly now."

He pauses and takes a breath which hitches and stutters upon its release. Whether from physical pain or from something far deeper I do not know, but when he continues his voice is stronger again. I do not know for whom he steels himself – for all he knows I am in the deepest places of my mind and hear not a word he says. He is Legolas, though, and strength is the greatest part of him. He continues on.

"I believe in truth that its hatred is much similar to the way the orcs so detest the elves. Your kind share a past, but it has been so long now and much faded, and it did not remember very clearly. It should have been a dwarf once though, I believe."

He says more on this, and I wish to hear it – by Mahal I wish to hear this but I do not have control. I fight as best I am able but even Legolas' voice is starting to fade. We need help, we need help quickly. We will not last much longer down here. I fear more than anything the silencing of Legolas' voice, for then we are both lost.

He is whistling again, and sometimes he sings. If he speaks I no longer hear his words. I dream then of Shadows that could have been dwarfs or dwarven shadows, I do not know. I am chased by them, I see red eyes in the darkness and they come upon many legs. I am afraid, I fight and there is a weight in my chest that bears down upon me, and I cannot breathe. It hurts, my heart fits and struggles but then I sense my friend there. I sense him in the way I sometimes can; he is a green and golden presence, like a sunlit breeze after rain. It brushes through the heavy darkness in my mind and I can breathe easier for it… I calm, I sleep.

I hear a scrabbling and a rattling of stone and rock. I hear scuffing movement beside me – someone is trying to climb. They are at it a while, this person… Legolas, it must be Legolas. He tries, but he cannot. I hear the sound of a falling body, a cry of pain and then words I do not understand gasped out in frustration. They are bad words; I have heard him use them before. He cries out: it is a sound of grief and anger and pain. He is losing hope.

Something deep inside me clenches and weeps that he is still fighting this hard, and that he does so alone. I cannot be there for him, I cannot help him.

My skin is burning and for a time I believe that we have fallen into flames after all. I know that there has been fire… I know that this is important, and I can only assume that this is why my very bones ache with such a furious heat. I do not understand – I fear the fire and yet I continue to burn, there is no end to it. I shift and I try to escape it, I must make some noise as there is coolness at my brow and a golden voice that tells me that I am safe. I believe it.

The next time I hear his voice I hear excitement, although it is choked and weary. I hear joy and I am jostled unpleasantly. I am confused, for I do not know where I am or why my skin feels ready to burn from my body. I do not know what happens, but the voice that I hear is pleased indeed and so I know that I should be pleased as well.

"There is a rope!" I am told, "Gimli you must wake; I cannot do this alone!"

But I have no response for him. I know only the pain of movement, I know dizziness and I know that I do not wish to be moved. I hear distant voices and there is activity, but I do not know whether I dream or whether it is real. I cannot tell!

I am gone, and I know that in leaving I abandon him one final time. I do not think I will wake again.

TBC

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**To be concluded on Sunday.**

**I know I've mentioned this one or twice before, but Sunday is not only the last chapter - it is also my birthday. I'd absolutely love it if those of you who have been reading but have not yet reviewed could poke your head up and say something.**

**Massive thanks to those of you who do, and who have made me feel as though I am doing something worthwhile here. I owe this entire fiction to those who have encouraged me, and given me feedback on what I have written. You know who you are, and I thank you.**

**Lots of love, and see you soon**

**MyselfOnly**


	16. EPILOGUE

It is a long journey back to waking, but now my dreams are just that: only dreams.

I sleep but it is sleep that I understand; it is safe and it is comforting. I do not burn with fever, I do not thirst. I do not feel fear as shadows chase me through my own mind… I am safe again.

I awaken slowly and I take my time to examine every sense and feeling about me. I test my limbs, my muscles: every nerve and sinew is tested before I deem myself well enough to return to the world and I am surprised by what I find. When my eyes last saw, the world was black and hopeless. Now it is flooded with light.

I lie upon thick grasses, and although my body is a singing harmony of pain it is tolerable. Pains that were sharp and immediate before are now dull aches, previous aches are now distant throbs. It is extremely unpleasant, but I am well. I am clean, I am bound… I believe I have been given something herbal as there is an interesting blurriness and colour to the edges of my consciousness.

I open my eyes and they are flooded with stinging tears at the brightness of the sky, but I do not close them. The sky is blue: a pure, breathtaking blue and the sun shines warm upon my face. It is afternoon, or so I believe, and I take a while to feel the overwhelming joy of an unfettered, gleaming summer's day. I feel warmth upon my skin, a breeze that brings sharp and clear scents of blossom and wood. I breathe deeply and I still my shaking. I live.

I can hear voices, but the loudest of them I recognise. I recognise it because I have heard it through all of my dreams and nightmares; it has been there for what feels like an eternity of darkness and has brought me back to myself. It has stood watch over me and kept me here… kept me rooted to the world.

Legolas is thoroughly reprimanding someone, and I turn my gaze to seek him out.

He sits, all but swaddled in bandages. He is tolerating the attentions of those who fancy themselves healers but although they work to staunch his bleeding and bind his wounds it takes nothing away from his ire. He is making his dissatisfaction quite known to those before him: the six archers that were sent home and who are very much here. They stand as naughty children before their schoolmaster, pretending that they are chastised but there is fire in their eyes. They hear him, but I do not believe that any single one of them is sorry for their actions. I know it is they to whom I should give thanks for our rescue.

I stay where I lie, staring up at the sky and listening to my friend shouting at his men. I feel wetness upon my cheek, it soaks into my hair but I do not wipe it away. We are both alive, we are well; we have survived when I never thought we might and it is an overwhelming feeling. So much has passed; so much we have seen and fought and now it is over.

_It is over._

I drift. I feel a sense of peace and the comfort of safety, and so it is easy to sleep again. My dreams this time are formless and brief and I know I do not sleep for long, but when I wake next the sun is setting. The light is a rich golden hue, there are birds singing farewell to the day and the wind hushes in the long grass. I can smell the earth beneath me and I hear a low murmur of voices, but although I listen for it there is one voice I do not hear.

I struggle upright, and one of the first things I notice draws a long suffering sigh from deep in my gut. Legolas is an exceptional shot, all know this. He is best amongst the archers and I know that my beard being full of grass darts is down to him. I brush them free and pick out those too deeply embedded, and I look up to see the elf finally asleep.

I spend a moment watching him, before I even set myself to examining my hurts I watch him and I do not take another breath until I see his chest rise and fall in sleep. He is pale… so very pale. His face is clean, his hair braided and he wears clean clothes but it does little to hide the state that he is in. Livid bruises mark his face, deep circles bracket his eyes and he has become thinner… he seems unbearably fragile for it. So young does he seem to me right now; there is not a trace of the tireless force of nature that he has been these last weeks: he is but a sleeping, hurt elfling.

"Tell me the truth," I speak, and my voice is hoarse. There has been no sound but I know I am not alone. "How does he fare?"

"He will heal," Lord Ionwë tells me. He is abrupt as ever, but there is tenderness to his tone. I would not have heard it before; it is buried deep where he keeps all of his emotions in check.

"That is not my question," I huff. "He could have said that to me himself, although I would believe him less than I believe you."

Ionwë makes a sound: a grunt that could almost be a laugh, and he sits in the grass at my side. He is also clean and his injuries are bound, but his bruises also stand brightly against his skin. He looks weary. I realise now that he always looks that way.

"He has lost much blood," he tells me honestly. "He is cut and bruised and his ribs are broken, but these are things that will heal. You were in the ravine for a day and a night and you have slept through another day here, but our prince only sleeps now. Even then he only does so because I drugged his water – he would likely still be watching over you now had I not. He is exhausted beyond measure, but should he rest a while he will be himself in time. Faster than you will I would imagine, Master Dwarf."

"That is heartening indeed, but it is not my true concern," I sigh. I stretch my arm tentatively, releasing it from the bindings that hold it still. I grimace and return it back to where I should have left it well alone – Legolas has done a good job in setting my shoulder, but it will hurt a while.

A day and a night… he spoke to me for a day and a night. He was alone all of that time, deep in the dark of stone where he is most afraid. I tuck the thought away… I do not want to think on it yet. We are alive and whole and finally free, for a moment I wish to just be happy for that. It is selfish, but I am a selfish dwarf.

"No, it is not our true concern," Ionwë confirms. "His fëa is grievously damaged… it is beyond our healing."

I value Lord Ionwë's honesty. It is something that I never thought to appreciate in him – he is blunt and cruel with it at times but I understand him far better now. I can hear the pain in his voice, although it is much buried. I know that he cares for Legolas and in this we have reached a common ground. His words sicken me but it is nothing I had not already guessed at, nothing I had not prepared myself for as best I can. Nevertheless his words make my chest tighten and my heart aches painfully. We have won, we are victorious! Why then do I feel so defeated?

"Will he sail?" I ask. I must know, but I fear the answer… oh, how I fear it. Ionwë snorts again and this time I know that it is a laugh.

"I sometimes wonder whether our prince will be the last elf to walk the lands of Middle Earth," he tells me, standing with some difficulty. "If he can bear the sea longing, then I do not doubt that he is stubborn enough to bear this. He will need his friends though, that I can tell you truthfully. It is good that you are with him, Master Dwarf."

I look up to where he is silhouetted against the setting sun. Before it would have galled me to lie so low before this elf, but no longer do I feel the need to prove myself to him. I am weary and I ache, and Lord Ionwë gives me a smile that is quite unsettling although I believe it is meant to be kind.

"I will tell your friends that you are awake, although I can pretend that you sleep still if you wish it. They have been anxious for you indeed, they have grieved painfully. For a day and a night we truly thought you lost. It has been a trying time, and all the more joyous to find you both living, if not entirely well."

I cannot help but smile, although I am horrified that we have been mourned. I cannot imagine facing anyone who has contemplated my passing; _things_ are thought when someone is grieved for, I do not know if I can meet their eye again but I cannot deny it – it will be good to see my friends.

I ask a question that has haunted me since my awakening and I choke it free now, but I do not look to him. I do not wish to see it on his face if the news is ill.

"Almárean?" I ask.

He is silent for a while and I cannot bear it. I look to him and he is watching me with an odd look upon his face. He does not understand our friendship… he is fascinated by it, and this time when he smiles it is a more natural thing. He looks younger, the years drop from him for a moment.

"He must sleep, he will be a long time healing but we are hopeful. Rest, friend Gimli," he bids, and then he is gone.

It is the first time that he has simply called me by my name.

~{O}~

It is late when Legolas finally wakes. I am still sitting watch, but any longer then I would be given in to sleep. I have been kept alert by a constant stream of joyous well wishers all through the evening and have even taken a short walk about the camp, although not so far as I thought to. My knee is simply wrenched, but it is only painless when it is being left well alone and together with my ribs it is irksome indeed. The elves seem quite content to bring me all that I need: my friends come to visit, although Almárean must not be moved and I must make do with word of him only. I will go to him when I am able. Until then I am happy enough to sit as I am, to rest and to doze in the warmth of a fire. I believe I have earned it.

When my friend wakes I know that he rouses from poor dreams… his eyes are straight to his stars.

He does not know that I watch, his mind is not yet fully where it should be and I see honesty upon his countenance as he never shows any of us. He is afraid, he is so very deeply weary and there is darkness in his eyes that I have not seen there before. It is raw, and it is painful to see. The years sit so heavily upon him right now… I do not know how he bears it.

I clear my throat to alert him to my presence, and turn away to grant him privacy so that he may do whatever he must to rid his eyes of that look. When I turn again he is himself. He is not the Legolas that left his father's palace just a few short weeks ago, but then I do not believe that I am the same Gimli. Ever are we changing… more so than most people.

I meet his eyes and there are no words, for there are far too many. There are too many thanks, one to the other. Too much gratitude, too much to say and so we will never get to speak what we truly mean. I do not think he can put it into words, and I know I cannot. I cannot think for a moment how to speak of the value his presence by my side holds, how in awe I am of the strength he has shown, how thankful I am that he sat by me in the darkness for that whole time. How thankful I am that he is my friend, and that we are both still here.

He smiles, but for a moment his resolve wavers and he scrubs the heel of one hand against his eye angrily. He looks away.

There is food there for him and he shoves it to one side.

"You will eat that, Legolas," I inform him, clearing my throat until my voice sounds right again. It is not a suggestion. "You will eat that, or I will call your men and they will help me to feed it to you."

The look that I am given now is colder even than the touch of the Shadow, but I do not blink beneath his glare and he reads the truth in me. I will do it, by Eru I will, and so he retrieves the food and begins to pick at it. He is unenthusiastic at first, but he has not eaten in many days and finally he finds his appetite again. I watch him like a hawk and do not speak until he has finished every morsel. I hand him water when he casts about looking for it.

Sated, he shuffles and grimaces about until he lies propped up against a pack next to me. Side by side we lie, looking up at the starlight. Bracketed by a frame of shadowy trees the sky spreads above us, huge and endless, and all about does the story of the elves sing to those who can hear it. It is thing of wonder and I wish, not for the first time, that I could hear the Song of Elbereth. There is the faintest chill in the air, and although we are not alone it feels as though it is just he and I here, upon these damp grasses watching the stars.

"You told me an untruth, Gimli," he accuses, although there is no heat to it. "You did not tell me that Almárean was so hurt."

"I did no such thing," I deny. "You asked of Idhren, who was quite well. You needed no further elaboration. In any case, I do not expect to hear a word from you about untruths."

"I am nothing but honesty itself!" he splutters.

"Then tell me how you fare, in honesty."

"I am perfectly well," is the arch reply, but I turn my head slightly to one side and I see a grin upon his face. I snort. I believe that my point is made.

Legolas holds his hands up and they are dark shadows against the light of the stars. They are heavily bound, but if I know my elf then I know that the bandages will be gone by the time that the sun is risen. He cannot abide being trussed this way.

"How do they feel?" I ask him, and it is not his words but his tone that heartens me when he responds. He is full of amazement… of wonder.

"They hurt," he tells me, "but it is the hurt that I should feel. I have spent so long with them poisoned as they were that it is a strange feeling indeed now, to be free of it. It is well, for I am more worn than I have ever felt in all of my days. I do not think I could have borne it if I had woken and felt any trace of the Shadow still within me; I have not the strength for it."

"How did you manage it, Legolas?" I ask him. I must know! "From where did you find such resolve? I thought you might fade days before we battled the Shadow, yet always you managed just one more day, one more night… just one more dawn."

He shrugs one shoulder, the barest of movements, and I try not to let it bother me. It is a mystery, something I cannot make sense of in my mind or my heart, but to him it is nothing.

"I imagine that you are stronger of will now than you were as a child," he tells me. "Then stronger again since your beard grew in, stronger more since even this time last summer. It is the same with the Firstborn… we have had many years in which we have grown within – although there is little to show for it without – and I am fortunate for I had my friends with me. All the strength of will in the world is worth not a thing if there is naught to fight for. It is easier when others fight beside you."

He turns his head and smiles, and I cannot help but match the warmth of it. These smiles, these moments – they are how he has learned to tell me of my worth in a way that does not embarrass me. I had not noticed before.

"I had never thought to put myself through such pains to rescue an elf," I tell him truthfully. "And that is twice now, both within the same season. I know not how your father managed to keep you alive for so long; I am exhausted after so short a time!"

"You told me that I am worth the fight," he teases, but I do not join him in jest.

"You are, my friend." I tell him. I give him honesty, and for once it is I that has embarrassed him. He looks away, but when we are both looking again at the stars I see a pleased smile from the corner of my eye.

~{O}~

By the morning the elf is up and staggering about unaided, although if I am any different at all it is because I feel worse than I did yesterday. My mind is clear and I am well in myself, but my body disagrees quite strongly and every bruise thrills with my own heartbeat. Nevertheless I rise as well, because curse the elf... I will not be made to look a weakling beside him any longer.

We eat a hearty breakfast and whilst I sit eating I cannot help but consider the change in the weather. It has rained almost without cease during this ordeal, and now it is glorious. I am too hot already despite the early hour and I watch with envy as the elf has no compunction at all in wandering about bootless, in breeches and a light undershirt that makes him look even younger than he did already. He is pale and gaunt, and I can see even clearer now the weight that he has lost from his already spare frame: the bruises, the bandages that wrap about each of his hurts, but his smile… he has not yet stopped. It is as though he has been freed from something, as though his heart sings and it does me the world of good.

Even the archers – who rescued us, I know the truth of it now – have stopped giving him such a wide berth. His anger is swift and often forgotten quickly enough: he cannot truly feel anger at those who saved our lives, whether they disobeyed orders or not. They are also bandaged and limping but they are _laegrim, _and they hear only the Song of the wood and know only joy.

We are a field of wounded, some still have yet to wake, but we all live. I cannot imagine how we have been so fortunate.

"The stars have smiled upon us, Gimli," Legolas beams at me, returning to my side. How he reads my thoughts upon my face I have never been able to learn. "This could have gone badly indeed, yet all who set out will return again. I could never have hoped for such a thing."

"Perhaps Eru tires of losing those born first," I offer, only half in jest. "Immortality is something precious, and not to be wasted. Not now… not when all that is left is for you to sail home."

"No life is worth more or less than another," he shakes his head, but I can see the moment in which he pushes such thoughts aside. Now is not the time for gloominess, there will be many nights ahead of us in which to examine such things. "Will you walk with me?"

"I will attempt it," I take a deep breath, "although I know not how successful I might be."

He helps me upright and my breath catches in my throat as my knee, my ribs and every bruise upon me cries out and calls me the foolish dwarf that I am, but after a while the movement helps. I have stiffened almost to stone, but as I limp around the clearing that has become our camp I feel much more myself.

We visit each elf, we take time to spare a few words of gratitude and strength to every one of them. They are deferent to their prince but there is also respect toward me. I do not know what to do with it, and so I nod curtly and hide my embarrassment with gruffness as I ever do.

We come to where Almárean is, but he sleeps. He looks in poor condition indeed to my eyes but Idhren is there to reassure me that he heals – slowly, aye but his injury is grave and he will need time. I do not know whether Almárean will ever return to his duties, but if I know this elf as I believe I do then I know there is a hearty fight ahead of any who tells him he cannot.

We come now to where we had been destined all along, and although I drag my heels we come to the edge of the ruins as we were always going to come eventually. I stop and I gasp, and my mind cannot resolve what I see.

We stand upon a precipice, and all around me is burned to ash.

The flames caught this side of the ridge, Legolas tells me. We lay below whilst all above burned, and I could almost laugh that such a close brush with my own mortality was in fact the thing that saved us both. The elves could not hear us, they could not approach, but after a day and a night the fires had burned themselves out and the returning archers heard us, we were found. Legolas' tireless hope saved us both.

Beyond the ridge before me and past the new ravine stretches a land ravaged as if by the fury of the Valar themselves. As far as my own sight reaches there is nothing but ruin: a deep crater within the land, with it all crushed and broken into pieces within. I can see the snapped and burned trees, like twigs now within the rubble. I can see huge slabs of land twisted and sunken, reaching up to the sky like broken bones. It is huge and devastating, and I cannot think of a single thing to say about it. I can still smell the smoke, I can hear the roar of the fire and the screaming of the land calling from my memory and I shudder to think what nearly befell us. How have we escaped this?

"This will be a lake one day, I imagine," Legolas speaks, and I can believe that he is correct. He is wistful, and I wonder if he feels sadness that he will not be here to see it. "The Shadow will not burn forever, but it does my heart well to know that the stone in which it now dwells will be covered by deep waters. There is much mischief to be made by curious men; this should keep them safe for a long while."

"And when they ask themselves: 'what caused such a place?' I cannot imagine they will ever think of a thing close to what happened here."

"It is best that it is forgotten," he tells me, and despite the charred ground and thick ash, he sits with a grimace. His legs dangle into the crevice that was nearly our tomb, but he is careful that he does not look down. I do not wish to think on what memories he will take from his time in the ravine.

"If men are good at anything," I tell him, groaning mightily as I also inch my way to the blackened ground beside him. "Then it is forgetting things. Are you well though Legolas, in truth? Do not lie to me this time; I must know."

He looks out at the devastation before us, but it is not the ugliness that he sees. I know him well enough to know that. I try to see it as he does; the perfect blue of the sky, the verdant life beyond this ruin, the birds that dance and trill upon the air. I try to see it through his eyes, and I feel hope rising within me.

"You will laugh at me, I fear," he speaks, "but I may need much distraction for a while my friend."

I manage not to laugh but my eyebrows vanish into my hairline. His face twists with a self deprecating smile and he waves one hand, he knows well how strange that sounds.

"I know," he sighs. "One who knows only distraction asking to be distracted; I realise how it must sound to you, but I hear the Shadow still and I see things differently than I did. It sleeps now: I see its dreams and foul things they are… I cannot block them out. I cannot always free my mind from what is real and what are the thoughts of the Shadow. I will find peace in Valinor, I know it, but until then I must seek distraction in good things."

"Then never again will I mock you for it," I tell him. "You may gape at the sky and walk as one brainless as much as you need."

"I would thank you if I believed it for even a moment," he glances at me from the corner of his eye, and I cannot argue. He is correct. I will continue to mock him just as I always have. Perhaps he needs that as well.

We are quiet for a while, and I find myself captivated by the sight before us. It is a thing of wonder: that we have wrought such devastation upon the land. It feels like we have broken something sacred… that we had no right to bring down such destruction, but I truly believe that it was worth it.

"When we were in the ravine," I speak, unsure of my words but speaking in any case. "When I was dreaming, I heard you talking to me. I heard you speak of the thoughts and memories of the Shadow: that it shared a history with my people."

He shifts uncomfortably. I do not believe that he imagined I was listening. He thinks awhile, clears his throat and brings his arms about him as though he is cold… as though he feels a need to protect himself.

"Aye," he says eventually. "I know little about it: the Shadow had forgotten much of its own tale, but I saw enough. It is a remnant, a castoff. Aulë made the dwarves and then set them to slumber beneath the earth where they were believed safe, but they were not safe from Morgoth just as the first elves were not safe. Even Gollum was once one of the River Folk – many things of the dark were first born to light."

I shudder. I heard him right, it seems. My mind is swiftly becoming cluttered with thoughts and knowledge that I do not wish to have, and this is another thing I push away. I cannot feel pity for the Shadow – I cannot feel pity after what has been done. I feel the knowledge fighting to be considered, struggling to push to the fore of my mind but I will allow it no quarter. Again, this is not something to be thought of here and now. For just a while longer I wish to feel only relief and joy… I am tired of having such a heavy heart.

"Come," he says, getting to his feet. "I have something to show you."

"You could not have thought to show me before I sat down?" I mutter beneath my breath, struggling back to my feet. His hand is there to help, and I take it.

He leads me back, away from black thoughts and ash to the camp, past our friends and comrades. We walk slowly, taking in the air and the sunlight, and I still am not yet used to this feeling. It is not the sense of being a part of something, for I have felt that before amongst the elves. Neither is it the simplicity of their lives, as difficult as they are. I have become well used to the knowledge that I need not be anything other than I am, no more than Gimli, to be welcomed here. It is none of these things that I must overcome: it is the sense that we are in no hurry, nor are we in any danger. It has been such a short space of time, a blink of the eye next to the time that we spent on the quest for the ring but never did it feel so personal. This battle with the Shadow has been different – a very different thing indeed, and now we are done with it.

"I wish I could feel relief," Legolas speaks. Again! Again he sees my thoughts and it is disconcerting, but nothing I am not used to. "It is difficult to imagine that we are free of it when it is like a moth, stirring in the back of my mind whenever I believe that we are rid of it."

"Time will heal all, Legolas. Even the Eldar feel the benefit of its passing, and although the horror of these last weeks will not fade for you as they will for me, I am certain that as all wounds scar and lessen, so too will this."

He nods. He can only hope for it, and I hope just as he does. I do not wish my friend to suffer at the hand of this creature for a moment longer than he has, but there are some things upon which we hold no sway or control. He grips my good shoulder and I pat softly at his hand – as I imagined, they are unbound already – and we walk on toward where the horses are tethered behind the trees.

"I asked to be the one to tell you," he grins at me as we approach and I look to him for an answer as to where we go. He says little more, for there is a squeal and a great hue and cry from the elves that tend to the beasts, and then I am quite overcome by the joy of what I see.

There is a small red horse there, rearing and fighting her way free. A small red horse who is suddenly loose from her tethers and bearing down toward me with a cavort and a squeal of pleasure, and I am weeping. Weeping… over this!

Naurwen is torn and hurt indeed, but she has been well looked after. When she reaches me I am barrelled to the ground and I sit there on my behind, weeping for joy as she bites at my hair and then prances off a few paces. She runs a full circle around me, props and then bounds heavily in the other direction but then she is back and nudging me, and away again. She dances like a filly, and when she comes to me again I hold onto her head and she allows it. I breathe in sweet grass scented air and she huffs and snorts at me, and when I press my own forehead to her much wider brow she stills and whickers softly. It is more than I can bear, and it is this last reunion that breaks my resolve. All of the tension and fear from the last weeks drains from me like an exhale, and I laugh like a child… like an elf.

I look up to see Legolas smiling at me, and he understands. As always, he understands.

"The archers found her; it was she that turned their course back to us. She will never know it, but in a way she saved our lives for a second time."

"What of Roch, and of Veren?"

His eyes are sad then, and he shakes his head.

"Of Veren there was no trace, and Roch did not survive her injuries. She was a good horse – I shall miss her very much."

They are our only casualties, and I should be joyful that it is only two horses that have been lost in this ordeal but I understand better now the bonds that can be formed between horse and rider. I am saddened – deeply so. Legolas knew his mare far longer than I have known Naurwen.

"It is well," he shakes his head. "I have lost many horses over the years, and will lose many more. It is unhappy indeed, but I treasure the time we had… she has a brother here who I believe I should like to ride home."

I spend a while then fussing over Naurwen. My injuries will not allow rough play and she understands in the way that some animals do, but by the time my stomach begins to complain in hunger I turn to find that Legolas has gone.

I find him back with Almárean and Idhren, and now Almárean is awake. His eyes are dull and pained and he cannot rise, but it is good to see him so and I settle myself down with my friends as though we simply camp out and have no cares at all. There is a hearty stew prepared and Legolas looks to where I glare at him, sighs greatly as though being done some injustice and eats all that he is given. I share a glance then with Almárean whose eyes are full of that look I have come to know so well – it is exasperation, and it is love. I have known this frustration for so little time and he has known it for unfathomable years. I say it again to myself – I do not know how he has not set to sail over this elfling.

We stay as we are for the rest of the day, talking of inconsequential things and delving only briefly into the darkness that we have known. Almárean sleeps often, and even Legolas dozes at times which gladdens me. I tell Idhren a tale, nothing of great note but we draw a small number of visitors during the telling and I am praised anew for my skill. I tell another one when I am done, because we are all in need of distraction in some way or another.

I find that I am surplus to requirements when it is time to change bandages. I have my own changed, and then must sit by quite uselessly as my friends go through the same treatment. I cannot help but stifle a gasp when I see Legolas' bindings removed – he is a riot of vicious bruising and I know that some of it came by my hand. There is a rend down his back from shoulder to hip, and what I can only assume is a bite from one of the giant spiders upon his shoulder as well as other lesser slashes and scrapes. I did not know that he has borne such horrible injuries: his back is ugly and bloody, and when he meets my eyes I find that I must turn away. He does not wish me to see, he implores that I stay my tongue and so I must leave. I cannot remain here and also remain wordless, and so I leave to help some other elves in washing bandages.

When I return, Legolas has gone to the trees. I do not see him again this night.

~{O}~

We stay in the clearing another day, but by the time the sun rises again on the third such morning I see that the elves are all becoming restless. We will leave before the sun is much higher, I know it. They are greatly healed, even in such a short time, and even I am mostly myself again although I am still all over bruises and aches.

They begin to pack up camp without a decision ever being spoken and I help where I can. They are tidy and are anything but wasteful, and by the time we are in readiness the clearing does not look as though so many stayed here for so long.

Legolas alone is of the opinion that he is well enough to travel through the trees. He and Lord Ionwë have a heated discussion indeed, and although the elven General would never be disrespectful enough as to rebuke him in front of his men I am close enough to hear the argument, and my ears turn red from what I overhear. Legolas returns truculent and angry, but when he is handed the reins of a horse he says nothing on it. I know he wishes to, he has the look of one chewing upon a wasp but he holds his tongue and it is all I can do to stop myself from laughing.

It is quite apparent that the horse that Legolas has been handed is indeed of the same line as Roch. The stallion is larger than even she was, but shares her sweet temperament and is just as fine. He is a gleaming sable although all four legs have white stockings, and he regards Legolas with soulful and kind eyes. Legolas strokes at his nose with a sad look about him and I am told by one of the other elves that he is named 'Neleth'. I sigh.

"Legolas did you name this horse?" I demand, and there is a chorus of laughter. "'Three' is not a name, it is a number!"

"He was the third from his sire; the first is always named Roch. And I would ask you to spare me your opinions on how I name my horses."

He is in a poor mood now and swings himself up onto Neleth's back. I choke back a laugh as I similarly mount my horse, but Naurwen is only fit to ride providing I do so without a saddle and I am not as comfortable in this. It is Legolas' turn to smirk as I struggle upon her back with my knee, shoulder and ribs in the condition they are. I glance at him and am displeased with how much higher he is than I am, but we have little time left in which to upset one another. We take the rear, Lord Ionwë rides point and those archers fit enough to do so travel ahead as scouts.

The manner in which we journey away from this place is as dissimilar to the one in which we arrived as it is possible to be. We walk the horses, and we talk and laugh as we go.

Only Legolas and I spare a glance behind us as we leave, taking one last glance at the final resting place of our Shadow. It is strange: it feels as though we leave a part of us behind, and we share a look before we turn to put this place at our backs. It is sombre and silent, and full of meaning. We say nothing, for there is nothing to be said.

~{O}~

We walk the horses the whole day, and I would be a liar if I said that the pace does not frustrate me. I do not believe for a moment that I am well enough to handle a fast run, especially not the way the elves ride, but I have spent long indeed riding at breakneck pace with them. It feels unnatural now to be travelling so slowly.

It is made bearable by the constant stream of visitors that we have. Mostly it is Almárean and Idhren, who ride together and argue incessantly about the older elf's position as a passenger aboard their mount. He does not feel that he should have to ride thus, Legolas and Idhren disagree, and it is hours of wearisome sniping as they harangue their old protector and mentor. They bother and fuss over him, and it is like watching two old fish wives berating a tired old patriarch. In the end he falls silent and lets them speak amongst themselves as though he is not there: they discuss his faults and flaws as though there is no better entertainment and I catch his glance at one point. He has the long suffering look of one who has borne this before, but finds it no more bearable each time.

Faelwen rides with us for a while, and I find her company amusing and interesting as I ever do. She is sharp, this elf, and she notices things I had never thought to. She rides with Sidhion who I believed to be shy and retiring but I am proven wrong: he is merely watchful, and now that he sees me as a stranger no longer he is quick and light hearted. I find that I like him very much.

When Legolas first begins to sing I am taken aback for a moment – it has been a while since he has sung any song so light hearted – but the others join in and I am content merely to listen. It is a song I have heard before – a waysong – and I know enough of their tongue to know the words. It feels good to be a part of their journey as a friend and not an outsider.

When Lord Ionwë joins us the conversation becomes far more subdued and respectful, but I find that where I am careful of this elf and I mind my words, I do not fear him as I did. I understand him better than I ever thought to and where once I saw rudeness and cruelty, now I see that he is too old and too tired to dress his words. He speaks plainly: he is aloof because this separates himself from his men, and so he can be what they need him to be. He does not do this with Legolas – not in the same way – and although I appreciate how frank they are with one another I cringe at times at how guileless their words can be. They are forthright indeed, but it is softened and I did not see it before. I hear now something else behind their words: it is history, and it is trust.

We do not speak a single word when we pass the clearing in which I lost my friend. There are no words; each of us feels differently toward it but none of us feel well. To us it is where we watched our friend die – to our friend it is where he lost his own personal battle. Here we found Idhren again, here he was returned to us but much else was destroyed and so we say nothing at all. What we feel is too tangled to make sense of just yet.

When we settle for the night it is in a place that holds no deeper meaning for any of us. We first passed this way at a run, and so it is just a clearing… just a wood. A few of the more injured elves drop into sleep almost straight away, although there is the ever present battle to change their bandages. I help to cook and Legolas joins a few of his _laegrim _friends in a foray about the trees. I can hear their laughter from where I am and it does me well indeed to hear them.

I take much time in grooming Naurwen. One of the elves has brought brushes and combs and I borrow them with thanks, and then set to make my lady gleam and shine. I am careful about her injuries but she takes great delight in the attention, and I feel the tension in me drain and fade as I put my mind at rest. I brush and I brush, because it feels good to me to do so.

I take a walk in the twilight when the moths are about and the treetops are black against an indigo velvet sky. The stars are showing and the day cools, although not a breath of air stirs to shift the heat. It will be a warm night, but I take pleasure in the scent and sound of nightfall in the forest.

The elf has not returned with his friends and I do not walk to seek him out, but I find him in any case. I find him practising at blade beneath the trees, and so I make myself at ease against the bole of a tree where the grass is deep and cool. This is not combat, he does not practise to hone his skill or to test his abilities. This is slow… it is a graceful movement of limb and sinew with his blades a shining extension of him. He reflects the light of Elbereth: he is lit by a faint pale nimbus and so he is like a wraith of silver and shadow. He is thinking. I have only ever seen him do this when he is deepest in thought.

I clear my throat loudly breaking the moment of peace, but I am ignored. I fidget and I tut and eventually he drops his hands to his side, bowing his head and seeking his patience.

"Is there something I might help you with, Gimli?" he asks me. His words are polite, but his tone is not.

I wish to point out to him that he has managed mere days before allowing himself to sink into his thoughts. I wish to say that he must do much better than this if he is to remain years yet on these shores. I would say that he must take some responsibility for keeping his own mind from falling in upon itself so easily, for I will not always be around to seek him out in this way. All of this I wish to say, but none of it comes from my mouth.

"Are we to return to the palace?" I ask, and then huff: "come closer, I cannot see you."

It is with a great sigh that he approaches, and he sounds like a put upon child but he does as I ask. He does not sit beside me but rather climbs lightly and gracefully up onto a low hanging branch. I could tug at his trouser leg if I were but to reach up, and so I do.

"You said we might go to Minas Tirith, and that I might drink ale and smoke pipe weed along the way."

"I did not say that I particularly _wished_ to."

"Aye, but neither did you refuse it."

"I thought we were to die, Gimli. I would have objected more strongly had I known that it may actually be expected of me."

"Very well," I huff and fold my arms about me. "Let us return to your father so that I might watch you shoot arrows until the winter. We should hurry; I am missing vital moments of it!"

"Peace, Gimli!" he laughs at my rising ire, and his laughter is an instant balm. "I meant no seriousness, I swear it. If it is your wish then we will go to Minas Tirith to see that filthy Ranger, and if I must choke and wheeze through pipe smoke the whole road there then that is how it shall be."

Abashed, I unfold my arms and play with the grass at my sides. I pull at it and let it drift back to the ground, not a breath of wind stirs it.

"Of course," he adds wryly. "We must first escape our guards."

He is right – I had not thought on it. I am quite sure that the elves we are travelling with believe he is going nowhere other than directly to the Healers, there to stay for a long while yet. I do not know how he is going to persuade them otherwise. If he is to be bound across a horse to get him home I know that they will have no compunction in doing so, and I know that I cannot fight off so much as a chill right now. I cannot rescue him from this many warriors.

My silence must speak loudly indeed for he answers my thoughts.

"Pah!" he dismisses, and I hear him shift until he leans back quite comfortably. I have never understood how he does not fall out of trees more often. "I have escaped my watchers enough times to know how: of those that travel with us I must only be wary of Almárean, Idhren and Lord Ionwë. Almárean is too sick, Idhren is too busy fretting about him and Ionwë has his own concerns over his men and the inevitable argument he is to have with my father upon our return."

I have my own thoughts on this but I do not share them. The three that he speaks of are watching him far closer than he realises. This elf is sensitive indeed to his surroundings: he sees much and misses little… and yet he can be so very blind. I do not mention it; I do not wish to make him think for even a moment on why he is watched. He is in a buoyant mood and I have missed this part of him.

"What of me?" I ask instead. "Not all of us can disappear so stealthily, nor flee so swiftly. I can hardly float away upon the breeze whilst they glance elsewhere!"

He snorts. I have not missed that.

"It would be a stiff breeze indeed to carry you anyplace."

I tug on his trouser leg again but this time far harder, and he yelps as he has to right himself suddenly or else fall. His yelp turns into both a complaint of discomfort and a laugh at the same time. He settles back into the tree with a groan that dissolves into a soft huff of amusement. I am not sorry for jarring his injuries – I know well enough that he can handle it – but I am pleased to make him laugh just as I always am. He retrieves his leg away from my reach.

We are silent for a time before the elf begins to hum beneath his breath, but it is no cheerful tune. He harbours dark thoughts I know it, but he hides it as he always does. He is not the only one that can read the hearts of his friends. I take his mind away from whatever darkness the Shadow pulls him toward just as his voice kept me from my own darkness.

"I believe that Aragorn will have much to say to you when we reach Minas Tirith," I tell him, and he snorts again.

"Aragorn only believes himself frightening," Legolas dismisses. "He may be a great ruler of men, but I carried him to bed as a child. It is difficult to feel intimidated by one who has quite heartily emptied his stomach into one of your boots – do not let Estel eat blackberries Gimli, they do not sit well with him."

It is an unexpected image and I cannot help but laugh. I wonder whether Ionwë has similar tales to tell of my friend here, and I resolve to ask him one day. I believe I should like to know more of the child that became this warrior, of the elf that has saved me in so many ways.

There is a breath of wind and the trees shift and whisper. I tilt my face to the air and it feels good upon my skin; cool and green with the scent of the wood. I can imagine an eternity beneath these trees – I believe that the elves thought they would walk here forever, but one day the oak and the elm that we rest beneath will age and fade. Those that replace them will not know the voices of the elves, and they will be as silent as the stone. What use a voice if there are none to hear it?

"What does this tree speak of, Legolas?" I ask him, because the tales of the trees seem important to me now. They are dancing, flighty things and they do not have the heart or the permanence that stone holds for me, but I wish to know. I cannot see the tales told by the stars nor hear the silver-green Song, but I have my friend here to tell me of it. I am lucky indeed.

"It speaks of the dawn," he tells me. "It speaks of the light that comes after the dark: it knows joy, and it knows hope."

I smile although I know the elf cannot see, and I reach behind me to touch the bark that I lean against. I speak to it, although I know it cannot hear me.

_I know it too._

THE END.

* * *

**I can't believe it's finally all posted! I'm actually a bit emotional about this!**

**Well, I really hoped you enjoyed the story, from beginning to this... the end. I'm going to be taking a bit of a break but there will be a few one shots coming, I'm not vanishing after this. There are a lot of tales of Legolas and Gimli still floating around in my head so keep in touch. **

**This is being posted much earlier in the day than I usually post as I've been told I have to be ready for 1 o'clock to go and do... something. I'm a bit nervous about this. Last night at the pub I was told it was scuba diving, spelunking, swimming with dolphins (followed up by alligator wrestling) paragliding, abseiling and rock climbing. I don't wish to die on my birthday, and I'm only *mostly* sure that my friends are messing with me. Wish me luck!**

**I'd love to get a good surge of reviews to this epilogue, just to wave it a fond farewell. It's been quite a labour of love and I've been asked if this now means my friends are going to see a bit more of me. I had no idea I've been so reclusive. Oops!**

**Thank you all for being there: for your excited reviews and your long reviews, for calling me mean names and putting up with my fondness for a good cliff hanger. Thanks for the PMs and the encouragement - I've enjoyed telling this tale and will see you all really soon.**

**Have a wonderful day**

**MyselfOnly**


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